I'm sorry I haven't checked in with you sooner. Has it really been five years since the storm? Time does march on.
It doesn't seem that long ago when I had to look up to see your gruff, leathery face while you shined my father's shoes in front of the Autocrat Club. To children like me, you were an enigma: shorter than 5 feet; thick, mahogany fingers stained with new colors; tired eyes that spoke in long sentences.
