Saturday, March 19, 2022
So very sorry. You will be missed, brother -- the long talks, the too infrequent get-togethers, the shared memories of our childhood.
Our dad loved this poem, and Tracy would have, too:
Funeral Blues
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let airplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
-- W.H. Auden
