I’ve known few great men in my life. Of those few, most are in my immediate family. That being said, I’m currently losing one of the greats as I type these letters.
Grains
He’s a worn hourglass, cracked, the last of the moments caught in sand, spilling through my frantic fingers.
Maybe if I wet the sand with my tears, I can hold onto them with more ease, mold them into new lungs, a new heart, anything to keep him here.
Each tiny moment, so precious, so fleeting. I’ll collect every one that I can and store them as my own grains in the hourglass within.
I’ll hoard them like a secret stash of wealth that no one can touch.
They are mine to store, mine to cherish, mine to adore
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