Mr. Bronte

I stand in the entrance of the parsonage where four gifted young people once imagined stories so great

A father’s worst nightmare is to survive his children, to be left alone to mourn for them

Charlotte was the last of my children to live, being the same age as her beautiful mother at death, age thirty-eight

My three girls became writers; my boy a poet and a painter

My girls grew into women with masterminds, never acknowledging their true worth; my boy, as well, made grave mistakes

I walk the countryside, recalling how they used to run wild and act out their wondrous tales; I cannot feel fainter

As much as my heart aches for their early passing, I wonder if I might be one of the most blessed men around

For I was given the gift of such bright, visionary children of whom I am so proud

Yet, as I wander the grounds, I long to hear their idealistic musings once again, no matter how small the sound

– Sara Kjeldsen

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