That Man With The Yellow Shoes"The end! Night bud." I closed my journal and kissed John goodnight.
"But dad, who was that story about?" A four year old looking up at you with those big eyes can really do something to a person. As I was about to say it, she said it for me.
"That, Johnny, was about me and Daddy." Taylor walked in and kissed Johnny on the forehead.
"But what about Arty?" John looked at me. And I looked down.
"Remember when that man with yellow shoes who kept saying my feet stunk came to visit?"
John laughed. "Yeah he was funny!"
I smiled. "He was, and he was kind. He was a good person."
"Where'd he go?" John said as our dog Scamp jumped on his bed.
"Do you remember where we went today?"
"Yeah, you said it was a party, because someone got to go live with God."
"That's right, and that someone was Arty." The questions stopped coming. It had been eleven years since the day I met Arthur Wells. He had become my best friend and lived to be 70 years old. And he died happy. He died laughing. He laughed so hard his heart gave out. Arty was a fighter, and he taught me to be one too.
"I miss him, Daddy."
"Me too, bud, me too."