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  • Writer's pictureLee Erickson, MA, LPCC


by Lee Erickson

His left foot was pointing East,

East like where the sun rises.


And as he was dying, I budded.

When he died, I bloomed.


It seemed strange to see him

laying there

on a gurney

in his aged, striped,

faded grey suit.


The trouble it must have been, to dress

him and button his trousers

and put on socks and tie

his little shoes and tie

his tie

when he could no longer help.


But they couldn’t keep his foot

from facing East.


His head, wrapped in white, golden


a kind of invisible man.


He felt that.


Few caring if he lived

or died.


Who wanted to see that?

was the question.

Who wanted to face the apathy?


Staring at his lifeless body,

his casual dress shoe clashing

with his ill-fitted suit, it didn’t really matter.


It was over.

His left foot was pointing East


and, in that moment of anguish,

I transformed into

a hope.

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