Dave

Shake his hand and you’d feel the knot; his knuckles were twisted but his spirit was not. As a younger man he built the roads, as an older man he somehow turned them all to gold. Always the storyteller— we listened to his tales. He gave the plane its wings he gave the ship its sails and he’d laugh at each as he remembered them. How his life was full; how we used to laugh along with him. He said that life was like a man who owned two hounds; one was kind and gentle one would bite whoever was around and the secret lay in learning how to know which to feed and which to let go. He was a father and he fed his children well upon the joy of his faith upon water from the living well. Shake his hand you’d feel the knot, knuckles twisted but the spirit, not. As a younger man he built the roads, as an older man he paved the way for us to go.