He was not responsible for great things to the public. He, instead, fathered three adopted children. He gave them choices and opportunities – two of the most valuable things that parents can pass to their children. He gave them love, too; but he could not give them a mother.

No masses were written for his death. His funeral was small, thinly attended. His three children all gave speeches; they were some of the few saddened by his death – and the rest came for the cold food.

All that remained was a handsome picture of him, in a fake suit put on his front, posing for a high school graduation. His children, too, were part of what he left behind.

A poorly constructed vessel is broken easily. He put himself up to be passed and thrown around; they dropped him from time to time. Eventually he learned not to put himself up; but one day, in his old age, the cracks and webs caught up to him, and he broke.

His ashes were scattered atop a quiet hill that silence held in a steel fist.




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