If you’re enjoying reading along, bring a friend to the circle.
Following him away from the party noise, I hurried to switch my audio recorder on. I had a feeling whatever he was going to tell me was something I’d want to keep.
Immediately he began reading the poem he wrote about Nino titled “True Friends.”
“These last two lines we both believe Even though he’s bigger than me Always True Friends no matter the cost I’m the big brother he never had And he’s like the little one I lost”
Choked up, he went on to tell stories from his time skiing with Nino, laughing about the day they raced at Steamboat Springs.
“If you’ve got another minute,” he said, “I’ve got one of Virgil.”
I told him that I didn’t know he liked poetry.
“I only did it for a short period of time. It’s like my paintings. I only painted like 10-12 pictures and then I quit.””
“I didn’t I know you painted,” I said.
By the end of the poem, the lump in his throat returned.
"Back to the wall his chances frail he’s taken many a hit tough through it all he did not fail he truly is True Grit”
As I watched little tears run down his cheeks, I felt an overwhelming sense of guilt.
This story is written in memory of Worthy Spear.
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