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54 World Without End Along with the foliage this year, you gave up. My ex-girlfriend, your daughter, sits in the front row without me, without a husband, where neither you nor I can touch her. I’m in the back, alone. Almost my father-in-law, you lie solo, a slight weight pulling the corners of your mouth south, perhaps the way you spent nights thinking of me touching your daughter. I never gave you the chance for a wedding handshake, but did slip her from under your roof. Today the priest helps us say goodbye. There’s no talk of union, but lines about dust and love and reward. I didn’t have the pleasure of knowing John, the priest says in a tone as tired as your given name. Your life is represented in photos among the flowers. This is the life you chose. Your daughter and I chose each other for awhile. When things— 55 including ourselves—weren’t so great, we stopped; probably should’ve stopped chosing each other a few days earlier. But you stuck it out: faithful to the end: wife, job, and country. Later, when you’re suspended over the small abyss to be your last home, the honor guard folds your flag with great geometry: a symbol you thought would last forever. The priest, reading, says the three greatest things are faith, hope, and love. We turn away, and I kiss your daughter’s forehead much the way you did. ...

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