The loss of a loved one wounds the living.
It pierces the heart and flows through veins, bleeding into the every day. It coats memories, the essence of who they were. Their pillow. Their favourite song. That time they drove you so crazy, all you could do was laugh. Their smell, which hits you in the most unlikely of places.
All of it altered by their absence.
Those who knew Rome Torti, and therefore loved him, knew more than most how precious and fleeting life is.
The end - it should only come when skin, well used, sags with the weight of a life well lived and bones, aching and heavy, crack in applause of limber limbed memories.
For Rome, it should have come as a great-grandfather, surrounded by a geriatric skater army, laughing with his son Ryder and his children's children over broken bones and dad jokes, his wife Rachel smiling over the scene, the same adoration Rome threw her reflected in her own eyes.
Instead, the mass in his head, the mutated cells he had lived with, fought against, laughed about, and ultimately made peace with, sent Rome's last breath out on August 22, while he laid wrapped in Rachel's arms.
And the news robbed hundreds of their own breathes. Rome Torti, a man who smiled with his whole being, would smile no more.
But Rome spent his 32 years living the hell out of every moment and teaching others how to do the same. He met Rachel and knew he was meant to walk beside her for the rest of days. She needed little convincing. He met his doctors who diagnosed him with an impending death and prescribed him months, and turned that into six years.
Years in which Ryder was created, friends were guided, laughs were had, lessons were learned and memories were made. In the end, science couldn't keep up with Rome. What he needed is still a few years away.
But the hope he left behind will continue to carry those who are walking the path he just left closer to that future. Rome was fearless in his fight.
He was inspired by his care givers and inspired them right back.
In the lead up to his release, he was admitted to hospital, a fever ravaging his body, sweat drenching one of his favourite t-shirts, but he still managed to find some grace for the young doctor trying to find a vein to take his needle. The doctor apologised. And Rome, who had been poked and prodded beyond endurance, who of late knew pain better than comfort, turned his Sinatra's on the doctor and smiled.
"I know you are only trying to help me," he said. "And you're amazing."
Rome strength came from knowing he was loved. And he loved, hard, right back. He was a man who would find the beauty in an abandoned mattress lying on a Miami street. The humour in his beloved Gold Coast, pointing out bull sharks in puddles. The style in a loud Hawaiian shirt. The dad joke in every occasion. He found light and grace in the every day and spread it on all who he touched.
On Thursday, Rome made his final journey, passing his Rachel, Ryder, his family and hundreds of friends.
He was surrounded by what he loved the most and with the sound of skateboards hitting the road in tribute rising above the sounds of laughter, applause and tears, Rome's greatest gift - his grace, passed through the crowd.
A young boy, caught up in the cloud of emotion washing over the honour guard, began to whimper and was comforted by his mum.
"Don't be sad," she said gently.
"Be cool."
Rome wouldn't wish for anything else.
