Sometimes when I saw him at a distance—fists in pockets,
whistling, bobbing along with his springy old walk—I would have a
strong pang of affection mixed with regret. I forgave him, a hundred
times over, and never on the basis of anything more than this: a look,
a gesture, a certain tilt of his head. It seemed impossible then that one
could ever be angry at him, no matter what he did
— Apr 25, 2026 10:23PM
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