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40 Blue Aura For my father Eternity, you know, is wordless. But certain roads drag his memory through me— New Mexico 68 between Taos and Santa Fe. Remember to breathe, he’d say, even though beauty was uprooting everything. Tearing across the country and somehow we were so still, like the point at which a road crosses a river or some less visible current. Something’s different, and yet, nonetheless, everything pushes on as if it were all still getting somewhere. (Meanwhile the poem, on its page, erases none of it.) I want to tell you that my aura is blue. I saw it in the air above our bodies as they wheeled my father, seconds from death, into the operating room. It looked like smoke filtering blue light, and even though I saw nothing, really, but the color (not form, not even emptiness), I felt that what I saw had nothing at all to do with life or death. In fact, it made them both irrelevant. ...

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