The man was bent. The hunch was the only tell that he carried all our problems- and there was always room for another heartbreak, worry, existential crisis, panic attack, teenage angst… name it. The warmth in his eyes allowed you to speak, as though the clock had stopped just for you to feel better. And everyone talked about him the same. The hundreds of roses is testimony as any. I add mine to the pile and I try to feel celebratory that a wooden box was too small to hold this Goliath of a spirit, I am sure will always stay with us.
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