The Man With The Gravelly Voice

When I was little, my dad and I would go for a lot of walks. On our walks, we would always pass by a dishevelled man on the road. He called me Deary. Every time, he would be there on the side of the road. He had a gravelly voice, so we called him The Man With The Gravelly Voice. Over the months, I grew used to him and always expected to hear his voice, calling “Deary!” and see his friendly smile. One day in March, I was trudging along the road with my dad, wearing my little silver coat. It had been a few months since we’d gone on a walk since we usually didn’t in the colder months. We turned around the corner and walked down the road where The Man With The Gravelly Voice was usually standing. My dad and I were already turning onto Welborne when I froze in my tracks. The Man With The Gravelly Voice wasn’t there. My dad explained to me that he had died in the winter. I was crying for hours. The Man With The Gravelly Voice was so nice and friendly, even though he didn’t have a home or any money. It was so unfair that he couldn’t have a home or even just a house. He died because he had nowhere safe to live. I remembered the last time I saw him, not even considering that it might be the last time I’d see him. That was a big game-changer for me in life. It seemed so unfair that someone could die because they didn’t have a safe home to live in. Home is very important, and everyone deserves one. Home is a happy, welcoming place, but, most importantly, it’s safe. That is what home means to me.