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Leaving Cashleen

The last time I was there, my dying friend
pointed out the view towards Dawros Rock
from her new home. We did not know the end
was near, that she would not live to lock —
even once — that door against the night.
We stood there laughing in the rainy gale
that blew through paneless windows. Her bright
smile is what stays with me, not how frail
she had become as cancer ate her bones.
All seemed so hopeful, that day before her death.
And with her gone, that unfinished home
infuriated me, filled me with wrath.
Anger is a part of grief. Forgiving
her for dying marked the end of grieving.

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