The Rest of the Story

The mic would warm beneath his hand,
A hush would cross the room;
He’d tilt his head, then pause a beat—
A master of the boom.
With steady tone and measured grace,
He’d guide us through the glory
Of ordinary lives revealed
In the rest of the story.

He loved the corners history missed,
The nearly-faded names,
The hidden hinge on which there swung
A hundred louder claims.
He’d spin the yarn with quiet wit,
Unwind it slow, not gory,
Then tie the final knot and smile—
“That’s the rest of the story.”

He’d show how one small act of good
Outlived the darkest years;
How one persistence, faint at first,
Could echo into cheers.
He’d let you think you knew the truth,
Then shift the inventory
Of facts until the light fell right—
Revealing the rest of the story.

And though the dial is different now,
The world tuned up and fast,
His cadence drifts like distant waves
From radios long past.
We carry still that simple grace,
A craft both calm and hoary:
The art of pausing just before
You tell the rest of the story.