The power flickered, but held. The birches bent—like some stupid poem—and the windows glazed. The morning was beautiful and with a blue sky and a little salt on the roads, the storm was over. All was well, and lovely. But all was not well, and had I known that the same storm had killed my cousin’s best friend, I wouldn’t have taken a single picture.
I only met George once and briefly, so I can’t speak of him personally, but 19 is far too young, and he was loved very much by his friends and family.
R.I.P George H. Deets IV