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December 26, 2015
I would walk miles with my father,
when as a tot, reaching his thigh.
He would ruffle my hair in fondness,
as I grew to waist high.
We would clown about and play-fight,
and arm wrestle and compete,
when twelve became thirteen,
and teenage years came to greet.
I grew bolshi and arrogant,
and anything but shy,
when him I could stand next to,
almost shoulder high.
But as time passed, we buried
the misunderstandings of my youth.
Becoming close buddies again,
now me, less uncouth.
And for a short time we were able
to stand eye to eye,
before he, in a wheelchair,
now reached to my thigh.
We were pals to the end.
I had at last made him proud.
And the day that I lost him,
I unashamedly cried out loud.
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