He was born on the fifth of December. He died on the twelfth of November, Eighty years later.
In his life, he experienced love, joy, trouble, pain, sadness and happiness.
He traveled, some. He stuck around, some.
He lived, he laughed, he saw and he danced.
He lived a life that was truly worth living, and he died a death that was truly worth remembering.
He was passing a liquor store that day, when a man exited, gun to the chin of a comely, young lass shouting profanities (in front of the children, no less).
With a gun in his vest, he reached inside and felt the curvature of the trigger, like he’d done so many times before.
He pulled it while it was still in his vest pocket. He shot the man cold, but as he was dying, and before he hit the ground, he fired a shot into his breast.
He died on the twelfth of November, in the hospital where he was born, eighty years ago.
A nurse there told me, his last words were “I had a good life. A good, good life”.
Deep down there is a small, little smile that reminds me to be thankful that I am living that same, good, good life.
