Papa John

The garage will feel emptier now.

Now written into his obituary, how he liked to spend time there with his friends,

accidentally and unofficially adopted into my family like an extra grandfather,

dubbed Papa by his grandchildren and by us alike.

My dad says he knew him about 25 years, a permanent fixture in the ever-revolving crew of guys who hung out during and after hours,

shooting the shit with him as he worked under cars on the lift or tinkered away under lifted hoods.

This grief is an odd one, the loss of a parent's friend,

found family still assigned rather than chosen, but loved just the same.