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Four days in late October, I sat vigil with Charles
at his dying mother's bedside in a nursing home
in Hattiesburg, MS. During that meditative state,
that's what it all felt like to me, I scribbled many
poetic lines (much like automatic writing) onto
notepaper and napkins, stuffing them into my
wallet for safekeeping. Once back in New York,
I entered them into my computer. These nine
"songs" are dedicated to his mother, Clarice.
While she lay dying, a wide range of songs flashed
through my memory bank. Many performers sang
familiar songs, repeating them in my mind's ear.
Mountain songs of my youth rumbled deep inside,
stirring up forgotten heartfelt rhythms and sounds.
Listening to her breathe and then not breathe, I heard
the mechanical measure of life with an oxygen tank,
and the silence all around us in the hush of her room.
Magic in death was happening, and we breathed in.
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