Rick Hunter lives with us.
He is present when our whole family sits down for Thanksgiving dinner.
He greets us “Devine”-ly every time we walk in the door.
We are not special; he lives with many people.
The store-window-size tribute by photographer Al Rendon conveys how much respect Rick commanded from his fellow artists.
The walk-by cellphone photo of Rick’s photo in Al’s window should be a throw-away. But the layers quickly enveloped us.
Some of Rick’s last Facebook posts were of Day of the Dead, and particularly poignant was one of an aged woman.
The woman you can barely make out in this photo, the one hovering above my head as though reflecting our inevitable future, is seated by a grave. The Mister noted the death date carved in stone. Our birth year.
And then there are the reflections of the buildings across the street.
No one wandered this neighborhood more than Rick. We rarely set foot in Southtown without bumping into him. He loved his hood.
The streets seemed particularly empty this afternoon.