He’s gone. And once again we start to pick up the pieces.
There are egos to be restored, confidences to be rebuilt, dreams to be resurrected, wounds to be healed.
Like a hurricane, every year he bowls in, strewing gifts in his wake, invoking a past that we’d mostly forgotten, or at least buried so deep in our consciousness there was only the slimmest chance of revisiting it. But he was always a man for the long odds.
“I’m proud of you all,” he said, leaving. “Everything you are is because of me.”
No disputing the accuracy of that observation.
I so wanted to write something different to this, but you have to take what the muse is willing to offer. And I had said I’d try to make it to Friday Fictioneers every week until the end of the year. Rain, snow or hail, Rochelle always manages to make it here. Thank you, Rochelle.