The Death Of A Well Liked Man
Willy Loman was a well liked man. Secretaries would send him straight through. "I'm a well liked man," he told his sons proudly.
Anthony Plouffe was a well liked man, and people invited him into their lives. They liked his sports teams, they liked his bands. They liked who he liked, hated who he hated. They liked the political opinions he shared. They liked what he cooked, though they never tasted it. They liked where he went, though they never went with him. Most of all they liked how he liked them: constantly, and without reservation. They returned his liking day after year.
They might have liked the cheese-and-broccoli casserole he'd burnt, if they'd been there - they'd have scraped off the black part and laughed over wine. They might have liked his integrity, if he'd shared his views fully. Or his doubts, insecurities, failings, and strivings.
Or his tombstone, if they'd been there, or known him at all.
24 December 2015