Pete Squires

You could walk into Pete’s office any old time, and he was usually there, all ears for anything you had on your mind, be it business or pleasure.

That’s it.

Pete was a pleasure.

If you didn’t find him in his office, he was likely to be in the kitchen, bent over a newspaper. He hardly ever sat in a chair when he read, but stood up, leaning on his elbows on the table. He always said he was most comfortable that way.

That’s it.

Pete was comfortable.

He was an easy laugher, and he could make other folks laugh a lot, too, because he could find funniness in almost everything.

That’s it.

Pete was fun.

You always knew that he was dreaming up and scheming up new Pete-type adventures. The next mountain to climb, the next cave to cave, the jump to leap. He rode his bike everywhere, and when he walked, he got places.

That’s it.

Pete was strong and healthy.

When he got sick, you know, no one could believe it. Most of all Pete couldn’t believe it. The sickness part of his life was all screwy, like someone had painted a black sky over a beautiful sunrise. He didn’t want to leave, and we didn’t want him to leave.

So we guess that’s why he stayed. He stays in our minds and our hearts and our dealings with this world.

That’s it.

Pete’s around.

When he was sick, he learned to love. And he learned how to be loved, too. All the stones in his private fortress turned to clay, and they melted like hard ice does in the sun. You could see it melt, slowly at first, then more and more as the rocks grew soft and surely wore away. That was the best thing about his illness, and we all know it because we were all there, including Pete, with our blinking eyes and our beating hearts.

That’s it.

Pete loved.

All of us who knew him still know him. He’s hard to miss.

That’s it.