Fly... for me.

Once as a child he had sat upon a yellow dune by the sea in the middle of the blue and hot summer day, trying to fill a sieve with sand, because some cruel cousin has said, "Fill this sieve and you'll get a dime!" And the faster he poured, the faster it sifted through with a hot whispering. His hands were tired, the sand was boiling, the sieve was empty. Seated there in midst of July, without a sound, he felt the tears move down his cheeks.

Sometimes, it's better to let the tears just come. And if the water falling down my cheeks can represent a life, then they are a crying sea of violin bows, sprouted grains, tai kwon do black belts, jet black hair, the sweetest voices and brightest smiles. I'll miss you Toby. Now, you can fly for all of us...