He walked like he knew exactly where he was going and didn't care he had yet to reach his destination.
He played with purpose, as though wielding a familiar tool, eyes down and focused, hands and fingers applying the necessary force--but he jerked and weaved with the neck, smiling to show it was not work.
His voice was clear, plain, and to the bone. What he sometimes lacked in tact he made up in pure, unflagging honesty.
He listened as though it was assumed he would, easy, calm and present; trusting, human and keen.
Archiving all of these memories
1 year ago