Dear Mr. And Mrs. Cunningham,
This is to let you know about the death of my father. He died Wednesday, May 15. He is finally at peace.
It is a comfort to me that I was with him the night before he died, and that we had a pleasant moment together. I told him about my day, and read him some poems, while he carefully fed himself M&Ms from a bowl I brought him--it was hard for him to get his fingers to do their duty. He had no strength left, nor any desire to keep living.
He always enjoyed the poems--when I finished reading something he particularly liked, he would look up, with tears in his eyes, and say, 'Isn't that fine! Throughout his protracted decline, despite the indignities imposed on him by his weakness, despite his despair and pain, he continued to love and be moved by poetry.
Here is the one he asked me to read that night.
What Tomas An Buile Said In a Pub
I SAW God. Do you doubt it?
Do you dare to doubt it?
I saw the Almighty Man. His hand
Was resting on a mountain, and
He looked upon the World and all about it:
I saw him plainer than you see me now,
You mustn't doubt it.
He was not satisfied;
His look was all dissatisfied.
His beard swung on a wind far out of sight
Behind the world's curve, and there was light
Most fearful from His forehead, and He sighed,
"That star went always wrong, and from the start
I was dissatisfied."
He lifted up His hand--
I say He heaved a dreadful hand
Over the spinning Earth. Then I said, "Stay,
You must not strike it, God; I'm in the way;
And I will never move from where I stand."
He said, "Dear child, I feared that you were dead,"
And stayed His hand.
Best wishes,
Hope