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by Candace Armstrong

I am grasping at your memory.
It's so hard for me to understand
at times.

When I think back I remember you
falling asleep in your leather chair
most nights.

With The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich
falling again, open on your lap,

How did I get my love of reading
when all I know you handed down was
hard work?

It must have come from your dreams for me
to have all the things you never had
in life—

a love of books, the time to read them,
fond memories of your sacrifices,


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