My father’s overalls, worn, worked, weathered, rest across a workbench, waiting to look new again. My father’s overalls, flaws patched inharmoniously, tears healed by stitches askew, frayed edges can’t be hidden. My father’s overalls, have worked too hard. The color is gone, the woven cotton worn through. My father’s overalls, will see no more dirt, will fade no more from the sun. They have finished their job. My father’s overalls, forever laying flat, stare at me with life, with a wisdom of endings.
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September 2014
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