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The Last Lullaby

a guitar with fingers strumming on it.
Photo by freestocks on Unsplash

Staring at my daughter’s reflection as she primped herself, brought a wry smile to my face. The bedroom mirror showed me how grown up she was, and that my job as her father was greatly diminishing if not over. The warm, noon breeze that blew through the upstairs window waved her veil and carried her perfume scent my way. White Diamonds, like her mother used to wear.




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Vuyo Ngcakani

Vuyo Ngcakani

writer, husband for 26 years, father of 3, grandfather of 2

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