It's strange.
The prewash function of the dishwasher stopped working.
When I spill food during my cooking sessions, the word "Cleanup!" stays unanswered.
The vacuum cleaner's pathfinfing stays unchallenged.
And the house is eerily silent.
I miss you buddy.

Resting was an alien word to you. The illustration picture for the word "rambuctious" had probably your face on it.
No one will pounce anymore on the metallic gate of the garden, and make it resonate like an explosion (and give PSTD to a whole generation of postmen).
No one will litterally dig anymore through the door of the living room, and stand proud among debris, popping your head through the hole you made.
No one will steal the champoo bottles anymore and split their content on the stairs.
And no one will escalate the fence anymore, just to stay stuck in instable balance for one hour, and make my neighbour say "there are strange birds out there".
Boundaries were not for you. Half of the neighbours I met, I did thanks to you.
But you would never hurt a child. All the children loved you and grew along with you. You participated to all their games and pranks.

And despite of your relentnessness, I knew I could trust you on one thing. I could get called for work during a meal, leave for a whole hour and come back with my plate untouched.
Because food was sacred. Especially the ceremony of the holy dried duck sausage. Sacrament of sacraments.
It's a religion we shared.

As true as you shared a place in my home for a quarter of my life.

And I cannot thank you enough for that.