Beautiful Rose, I think you would be moved to know the immense grief people are feeling over your death this week, though you’d probably want to be comforting each of them through it. You were one of those people who was always there for everyone, always standing up for people’s rights. But I heard such suffering in your stories anytime we talked, and your own vast grief over the death of your husband Tony, whose memorial used to be right at this tree where you’re standing. You told me such loving stories of how he’d help you with the things you couldn’t manage with your poor twisted hand – how he’d zip up your boots every morning, get you out of the tent early enough so that bylaw couldn’t take it all. Life had been so much harder for you since his death. He must have been so happy to see you again in that place where our spirits find each other. No more struggling with another boot zipper. No more bylaw seizures to steal the little you had left. Dear Rosie, rest in peace. “Out here, anything can happen,” you told me when we talked in April for a Street Story. “We’re all just waiting for the miracle.”