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"When I was young: a time when every year was to last a thousand years and every lifetime promised to be forever... it was evening - Angela lived about 10 miles from my house.  After celebrating my 16th birthday, her Dad came to drive her home.  On the way, a speeding car seemed to come from out of no where... and in that moment, it all went wrong... and my Angela was gone.  That evening, in my bedroom, I wrote a poem for Angela; I scribbled it in pencil on the back of an 8X10 photograph of her.....



We were just teens,
Only about fifteen then;
Her name was Angela,
And we touched a lot.
Together we'd loudly laugh,
Then she was most pretty;
Even when sad it still was so,
We touched an awful lot,
Often with her tear-lined cheeks
I'd hold her close to me;
And listened 'til she smiled.
Tears gone; touching was good.
On cold, shivering, winter nights,
By street lights we would play;
Exposed to all the falling snow,
Both wanting just to touch.
In Springtime she was softest,
More radiant than a flower;
With breezes swimming through her hair,
We always touched much more.
Then Summer brought the showers,
And shelter we'd then seek;
To leave the pelting heavy rains,
Where we could touch a lot.
The Autumn then brought the chills,
Of hints of things to come;
Through warm and big thick jackets,
We managed to still touch.
Then one dark and terrible day,
All alone I was, and I cried;
When told about an accident,
In which my darling died!


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used by permission
Copyright H.J. Gaudreau
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