Duane, a Harley biker in from West Virginia, was getting his Tundra looked at, and visiting a grave. His twenty-something son died a year ago in a freak motorcycle accident at a car dealer lot in the area. Duane was off for a bike ride on a beautiful southern Wisconsin day while waiting for his service to be completed.
Later, separately, I picked up Mr. Harrison at the airport. He was coming back to town from a long weekend in Ohio. He'd been out to see the relatives for the first time in eight years. They all gathered to spread their father's ashes. He was sitting behind me. We really did not make contact in the mirror. We talked about the weather after that. He was going home to mow the lawn before the rain today.
How do these things come up … and so quickly? It might be easier that way. There is something about being in the space. It is non-managed. It is safe. It is free. Strangers. No eyes.
Sooner or later, if we're sitting here reading this, we are all survivors.
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