Confession: I am a son, a brother, and a father and I had the privilege of communicating today with all those who have made me thus.

Justification: I need none.

Penance: Occasionally I must feel pain when sons, brother, or father does. Today, I am only honoured.

Post Script: A reposting of my son’s poem from www.skrymyr.wordpress.com

He lives upon a hill, a quiet soul,
content to watch his little garden grow.
Some days he stays inside his hillside hole
to write, or cook, or read—to take things slow.
He loves to walk around the countryside;
inhaling crisp, clean air—untreated earth
beneath his tramping feet—strong-legged, clear-eyed,
from birth to death, from far to hillside berth.
But being home is what he loves the most,
to pick the weeds on garden paths outside,
or write a verse, or hold his family close;
to stir a soup, or hang his teas to dry—
he’s not a hobbit, he’s my dad:
the best the Shire never had.

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