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Under a light so soft it appears to caress those it casts down upon he sits beside a hospital bed holding his father’s hand and readying himself to sing the lullaby that started it all.
At forty-five, he’s the same age his father was when he was born, placing the elder at ninety years old and on the brink of taking his final rest.
Within the last few breaths, heartbeats, blinks of the eye his father looks up at him as son begins to sing.
Within those first seven syllables father’s gaze returns to the past, to the nursery where he delicately dresses his son for the first time, fastening that last button before reaching down with a finger and watching that tiny hand wrap around it as he sings.
A B C D E F G…
That small hand, a little bit bigger now, guided by father as it places pen to paper and completes the two strokes which make the letter P.
H I J K L M N O P…
Son atop father’s lap the two open a package and withdraw from it a children’s picture book written by the duo.
Q R S…
A decade later and time has sprouted son into overtaking his father in height as they sit side-by-side signing copies of their latest book.
T U V…
Best man at his son’s wedding father hands over to him the ring which will bond husband and wife.
With tiny hand wrapped around his finger son looks up from his own son to father, joy across his face as he now understands.
Y and Z.
Back to the present, the here, the now, son’s hand wrapped around father’s, sharing that last moment of the father/son bond.
Now I know my A B C’s
In total peace the light dissipates from father’s eyes, life leaving the hand son holds so dearly as one single tear falls down upon it.
Next time won’t you sing with me.