Clichés matter.
They exist in the humdrum of verbose human communication for that precise moment to stab your soul.
Then, the cliché is part of your being and you wear it, every day, like underwear.
My dad died a year ago and with each passing day I have missed him more.
Time has, in the year gone by, acted only like a butler - drawing out vintages from the memory larder – succulent hors d'oeuvres of delightful joy; then pain-full courses of opportunities missed.
Cliché? You will only realise what someone is worth once they are gone.
Miss you dad.
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