My late friend Frank. Musician and therapist. Who met with those whose child was dying of cancer— For which he had no answer, but told them about Colleen, taken from him at ten… Oh freckle-faced little girl with the auburn hair And the trepanned skull, I saw how your father cradled The mandolin and brushed the strings of the song He wrote for you. And then went back to work. Back to his cubicle and his caseloads. And for the Next thirty years, how could those parents whose stricken Voices he heard not strike a chord, recalling Colleen? But given his gift, it kept him in tune, And led the helpless to Francis (Frank) McCaffrey, Oncology. He cradled the instrument.
