I remember him.

I remember the hours we sat together

Talking about life.

Sometimes I’d listen to stories

From his mission work days

Told in ways that made Africa

More than a place.

I saw his home, his friends,

And the countless voices that called him,


I felt the table he built with his hands—

Strong hands under the sun

That worked until age touched

His body and taught him


While I watched the road change

Into a water colored painting,

I drove to the home where he used to be.

I let death sting

My eyes and my heart

And I cried.

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