There was an older man that lived in town and worked at Shaw’s in the back butchery.
Very tall and elegant looking man. An intelligent and aware face. A graceful gate. Long limbed and tall.
He seemed out of place doing physical labor at Shaw’s — not that there isn’t dignity in physical work, and not that he looked ill at ease there — but he just seemed misplaced, as if he was meant to be somewhere else.
Never knew his name. Maybe nodded heads at each other is passing in town or in Shaw’s.
He had a mellow but reserved expression to his face.
Not typically good looking but very striking and handsome.
I read about him in the obituary section just now.
He had a long term love, two daughters, two granddaughters and his lovers children and grandchildren.
He was a metal smith artist. Loved life, and good clothing and was the life of a party.
That makes sense to me.
He seemed in good health but getting on in years as I would see him waking to work the past few years.
77 was his age — which seems youngish to me now that I am 53.
Life so strange and mysterious and fleeting.
