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I remember sitting in Peter's kitchen drinking strong Italian coffee laced with cheap brandy. Talking about this and that and whatnot. Everything and nothing. Enjoying.
His house was full of art, his and others. Collectibles he would find from wherever, throw them in the back of his beat up Ford Falcon pickup, race home to place these new found treasures of himself in their special spots. Ponder on them, show them off, "...this is part of me."
His mind always darting here and there, look here, look at me... no don't. You may see. I know... but I don't want to.
I enjoyed going out and about with Peter. He could be the life of the party, then abruptly sit in a conner as quiet as a mouse. Or... go in the front door out the back door no where to be found for days on end.
I enjoyed those mornings drinking strong Italian coffee laced with cheap brandy.
Peter... my friend, I miss you.