LOVE AND LIGHT

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I love Love. And Keats is so full of it.
I wonder who he is now...

The day begins with holding hands.

My "monster" looking large hand is held by a tiny old, skin and bone tiny hand. It is such a tender thing.  I can't help weeping.

Why, I wonder, is it so hard for us to break free from our shells and love? 

Why does the Higher Self only slide up and out in our last days?

How long are our last days?

                           "I love you."

That is our final sentence, if we are fortunate enough to be conscious. My grandmother could not speak.  My Father could only say it with his eyes and my mother, bless her heart, said it often, not knowing who she said it to. But she said it. That is all that matters.

Dearest Mommy,

If you can hear me, I love you too.
I will choose you again,
and love you better next life. 

Pip.


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