Boothe

A blind old man. How old? Could anyone really say? Seemed like he had been there forever. Many times found on a park bench, waiting on time and misery but always with answers. Through thick and thin, Boothe was there.

Where he lived, no one knew. What he ate, no one cared. What he saw, everyone wondered. Once asked, "What color are you?", he answered, "no matter, everything black to me!" 

Boothe's laugh was deep, low and loud, shaking him from the depths of his soul. Boothe heard humor in all matters concerned. Down on your luck, broken heart, out of money, cheating lover all made Boothe laugh. Not a vengeful, pity laugh but one of another chance, one of the essence of life, one of misery is the spice of life.

Boothe's cry was as soft as his laugh was loud and further within his soul. Good times, funny stories, celebrations of the human spirit always made Boothe cry. His were not tears of sadness or sorrow but of unrepentant gratitude, knowing good fortunes were priceless gifts and downpayments of being human.

To say Boothe's passing was noticed is as much to say as noticing the changing of the seasons or the oncoming of age. One day you are here, the next you are gone. A time with and a time without. No more Boothe, no more laughter, no more tears, just an empty park bench. No more answers.