At his funeral, long faces, downcast eyes, quivering lips promised it would get easier.
A few weeks.
A few months.
A few years.
That time would heal my heart.
That memories of my father’s large, olive-complected hands, deep, calm voice would bring smiles instead of tears when I gazed upon a picture of his young, proud face beaming, strong frame standing tall, dressed finely in his firemen’s best, his fatherly hands resting atop my tall eight-year-old shoulders, our coppery penny locks and soft caramel eyes accenting each other neatly.
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