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Showing posts from August, 2008

Poor In Spirit

Walt stood at the kitchen counter, stirring the lemonade. Esther had always made it from scratch, but at age 84, he figured he’d earned the right to use frozen concentrate. Through the window he could see Shane in the backyard trimming the hedge, and hear the electric motor. Shane was such a good kid. He’d been over every day for the last week to do yard work, and then to stay for lemonade and a chat. Walt loved these chats. He'd never been a Dad, but at least he had a chance to play at Grampa. Conversation was the nectar of Walt’s existence. He lived for conversation. Always had. Which was good because he’d always, always been someone who people felt they could talk to. There seemed to just be something in him that people saw as warm and strong and honest and true even though Walt had never found it in the mirror. Strange. He’d been the one his friends would tell their troubles to, ask for advice. Listen when he offered it. Even though he’d been just as young a