"What do you do with all the pieces?" I asked him once.

We were taking a stroll under a sky full of diamonds.
He pointed up and said, "Where would you put a star?"

He was the kind of person you would go to for calm, held your broken pieces as if they luminated.
Yourself, himself, the world -- he just saw things differently.

He chose to work with broken people, not to mend them he'd said once, just so they knew they weren't alone.

"Well, I suppose the only place they belong; the sky?"

He gave a half smile and his full on gaze held so much of the depth it attemped to veil.

"The stars hold memory. Our broken shards are pieces of shattered memories, each with their own glow." He looked down almost sheepishly, "I like to think their stories help me more than I help them, you know? Their broken pieces are kind of a gift. They guide me more than I ever could them."

I imagined him then, populating the sky of his own mind with these bits of fragmented light, using them to plot his course as you would the constellations. Letting the wisdom gleaned and their light guide him.

I like to think wherever he is, he found his way home.

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