Yesterday, at my father’s funeral, I hugged a quiet hero.
He was a quiet, humble, gentle man.
He had only known my father for one year, exactly.
This hero took the time to get to know him,
One who flew below the radar.
He was a man my father knew as “the quarterback,” and the consummate optimist, especially when he needed it most,
A man who told it like it was, always,
A man my father trusted with all his soul.
He was a man who helped my mother, held her hand, gave her strength, and still does, even now.
He was a man who took the time, even when there was no time.
And there he was, at the back of the church.
He entered quietly, without me knowing.
But when he left, we shed a tear, and hugged.