it. The tender presence of that beautiful man remains eloquent in my heart. His simple and quiet state of being there spoke the language of heavens. Merely present, he made himself a mortal Nirvana, the answer of all of Divine faiths in their talk of what it means to care-take another soul. His presence spoke love as I have never seen or heard scribes or poets quite so beautifully speak it. As he had been for my father, he was for me God's man for that day and night. There is no language fit for such love. Mr. Bill died just a few short weeks after that day. His son and I, broken of heart, soon celebrated our dads in tears and talk that fell so far short of them. I don't remember the words. The presence between us mattered far more. Now, please, do not read sadness into this. This is fitted to the joy parts of you, not the gloom. I write this with a smile, a celebration. I tell this story to remind all of us that death is a weak little bastard not fit to fear. Faith reminds us of this. What we ought fear, instead, is any failure to love, even the smallest. Presence is never small.   Your presence matters. It speaks, even in silence. It matters to people you love, and to utter strangers. Even silent presence is witness of faith, act of love, a poetry written by shoe heels and wrapped arms, well