With my Dad on a night darker than expected, much darker as lightning bugs flicker. He dug. I held the flashlight. He shoveled. I was sleepy, almost sad as I never liked fishing, and put worms in a day old tin can which we used to lure a fish to its ultimate death, the worm forgotten until the next day. My Dad would forget the unused worms in the back seat of the car, baked by the sun. That smell lives forever, it lingers, and the memory of the fish that we killed. I remember its one eye staring back at me with its last breath.
His friends observe Mark as wired a little differently. Perhaps it’s more likely that noticing little things often missed by others is a relic of a quieter, simpler time. He has a way with words, which he refuses to let be hindered by sub-par typing skills. People have great stories to tell if you sit and listen. A belief dear to Mark is that there is certain beauty in the world. You simply have to look for it.
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