The men who live in my memory had work to do. That work had a purpose: to feed their families. They were not career men with five year plans and KPIs.
The men who live in my memory did not worry about what it meant to be a man or whether they were good at “adulting.” They knew that whatsoever their hands found to do, must be done with all their might.
The men who live in my memory call me to that same simplicity. They tell me to lay aside these trendy worries. They tell me I’ll find all I need deep inside my bones, which they gave me as an inheritance.