Wednesday, October 15, 2008

I must write- for Malcolm

I don’t know where to begin, nor how to end.

I know only that I must write.

I must write because the same spirit than gave your body life gives mine, and it never rests without artistic release.

Malcolm McCormack, 28 year old black Jamaican male artistic creative inspired troubled by the things in life that affect us so significantly like injustice hatred envy greed malice pride politics development scarce benefits spoils always trying to find deeper meaning to your existence yet always grateful still for the small mercies the ocean the blue sky the lush green of Jamaican countryside hopeful kind young promising reflective of times good and innocent Son Brother Friend Nephew Cousin Schoolmate Neighbour Bredren man in the street smiling at nothing but everything.

My heart is heavy. My eyelids, light.

I remember playing with you in Jamaica. A distant childhood memory in which I had to climb stairs with my daddy to see you and Fran.

Now you have climbed stairs with the real big Daddy, to be with Our Father which art in heaven.

In the moments before you began your spiritual ascent, you made music. You found your own artistic release. You played your violin, giving praise like David to the God of music, the God of man, the Most High.

As you walked your final walk on the streets of this life, you were not alone. You were with friends. The same ones with whom you had just shared your music. And in those moments, as you walked, the music was still in your ears, in your heart. Your spirit was free. And so it went.

As you climbed the staircase to heaven, again you were not alone. This time, the Greatest Friend of All, the One who promised never to leave nor forsake you was with you.

Now, as your spirit lingers with us, we feel you as we gaze into the eyes of those who are gathered with us to not only mourn your passing, but celebrate the blessing of your life.

Every click of a camera shutter is a reminder of your passion for photography. Every smell of a new flower bud, a celebration of your wonder of nature, and now, even the most mundane walks, become a silent, spiritual event as we pay homage to you.

Thank you, my dear cousin, for choosing us as your family, and for giving us life even in your own death. For you remind us to live as you did, embracing the good moments and the bad and to find joys and profundity in the most simple things.

May perpetual light shine on you.

As we say in Jamaica, the land of your birth…Walk good bredren


Bodhisattva Harlem Mama said...

You are my cousin and friend. Stay writing.
peace and blessings.

Copyright 2009 TwentySomething+ Monologue. Powered by Blogger Blogger Templates create by Deluxe Templates. WP by Masterplan