Following the recruitment of 30,000 teachers, the news of his death hit him harder than anything he had ever known. He wept for himself; life would never be the same.
Grief settles quietly, rearranging everything inside. Maybe Lungowe did not leave me with pain, only a standard too honest to negotiate with loneliness. Some people are seasons—they arrive when needed and leave when growth is required. Life moves forward anyway.
Rose writes to the PS
Who will be the Fryover Bridge of his life?
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