old man.

You know, there are few people in this world, in this life, that really believe in you, and, I mean really believe in you. The ones that know more about what you're capable of made of more than you know yourself. 

Today I found out what it feels like when they're not there anymore. It's like it all gets a little darker all of the sudden and you realize the torch has been passed on to you to light it up yourself. 

I was just talking about writing. I've had this feeling that it'll come when it's good and ready and I'm not going to force it it rush it. Part of that was because the last conversation I had with Mr. Hilburn he told me he knew it would take me some time. I feared disappointing him and I felt the lump in my throat as I approached him at that football game. To really face him and it. And, just like always, he didn't scold me for the choices I made, but knew that it was all a part of the story. To know he still believed even after all of his pushing and molding and not being able to fully see it materialize. I'm sorry he never did. I don't know that he never will though. 

See, Mr. Hilburn was a writer and a story teller. He never ever stopped writing. I would believe you if you told me he was writing a column at least in his mind as he drew his last breath. He knew the core of things, and most importantly, people. He never seemed to change as he never wrote anything on a computer, always by hand and went to the same restaurant at the same time in the same town. You'd see him driving around Ruston in his red convertible twirling and chewing on the top of his felt tip pen. But, he changed you. If you let him. He never hid the truth and you never wanted to hide it from him. 

So, now the torch has been passed and it's time to pick up the felt tip pen. Who knew it would take this long? He did.