When someone dies, they are measured. Not by Gods, but by friends, enemies, peers, pundits, co-workers, co-dependents, media, society and most of all, history. But what of family? Where is their measuring stick? Through mourning tears, what metric weighs a loving caress against a hardened hand? Or justifies late praise from early condemnation? How now intimate our knowledge of the successes and failures of others to reflect none more so than within ourselves. Wrap not his flesh in purple bindings, The walking stick had an iron cap. Deeds done, deeds spoken, deeds aspired. Did I do any more good than harm? Did any? It is not the necrosis that leaves a man bloodless. It is choice, both Past and Present, that writes the eulogy. Let Lady Justitia raise arm Hail light and speak forth, "He was just a man. Just a man." But what a man.
Posted on: Tue, 30 Jul 2013 15:19:03 +0000