Death waits for us behind closed doors. It sits patiently for our arrival with a cup of tea or maybe coffee. Maybe with a book. There is no such thing as lateness when it comes to death.

He was a farm boy; skin forever tanned a copper gold. He didn’t have an education. He spent his childhood tending to crops and carrying heavy loads of firewood, water, fertilizer, and so on. He wasn’t much of a speaker, though his caramel-colored eyes often spoke for him.

He was no taller than 5’2”. His hair never greyed despite being in his eighties. He walked with a curved back and spoke in a raspy whisper. He died on the arrival of Spring. He continues to live in my memories.

Death steals everything except our stories.