On the life and death of my beloved surrogate Dad.
You were there for me, my friend, when I was in need,
when fear and desperation clutched me by the throat,
when the weight of the government came upon me,
and I was in pain.
But you gave me your hand:
across the hall you would come,
each and every day, until my quest for justice prevailed.
And when that awful weight was lifted from me,
I was there for you,
to console you, and to be with you in your time of loss.
So we talked, we shared, we laughed and we learned.
Most of all, we lived, and in these last three years
I was your surrogate son, and I looked upon you
as my second Dad.
You taught me how to deal with fear,
and to walk with horizon's image in my eyes.
And I will never forget what was, perhaps,
your best advice:
You would tell me,
“Just look in the mirror.”
This I did.
My friend, I was the lucky one and the fortunate one
to have known you and to have seen to your care.
And if I could, somehow, turn back time three years,
I would do it all over again, exactly the same.
You have the strength, my friend, to cross over,
but I will help you.
So take my hand, as I take yours, and take my strength,
as you have done many times before.
Let me comfort you, let me ease your pain and your fear,
now that you are near the edge.
You are calmer now, and your shaking has gone away,
and I begin to sense your sleep.
I hold your hand, and all the strength
I can give is yours to take.
Draw this from me, and take from me as you enter
into eternal rest.
Well done, my dear friend, and goodbye--
I held your hand as you found the strength to let go.