November 1.
I remember I met you there a third time, in that same spot. It seemed like you were always standing there next to that bench. It was the one that had so many names carved into it that you could barely read them; it was so rusty from the rain that came often.
But you always just stood by it and looked up to the sky. And when you did sit down, it was on the ground beside it. You would pull out that sketchbook you loved and draw the clouds that you saw.
I always loved your art. Even if I never told you, I still loved it, and the way it made you smile.
