It’s spring, and
in honor of your passing,
I think I’ll try to be a better person,
one worthy of the love you gave so freely.
In honor of your passing,
I think I’ll attempt to live up to
your image of me—unlikely, since
your perception grew on a field of fair play and ground rules.
And in my life, I’ve played a different field.
Still, you honored me with your steadfast friendship, reliable as a mathematical equation:
If ‘A’ stands for commitment
and ‘B’ is diligence, then
the sum of each equals you, who could be counted on—you, who would always play a fair game.
Your personal victories will live on
through many seasons in two strong and
beautiful Seeds—
but life is not a fair game,
unjust circumstance has erased the final score.
No matter. I recall a springtime years ago—
the gawky boy, rich in mind with numbers and voice, who could sing and calculate and joke
and tease.
And I remember the man who felt passion and yearning and hope, then pain as he moved through his days.
So, I think I’ll celebrate this season for you
as if every sweet breath is my first,
and not your last,
as if each unfolding petal announces a true rebirth.
Let death play out like a magnificent storm,
let it wash over you like an after-game shower —
then claim your peace in this earth’s field.
Can you hear your fans cheering?
There is no defeat, rather — another son of god
returned to the Maker.