The low lights cast dark and strategically placed shadows that hide the salt water streaming from my bloodshot eyes as I selfishly clench your "Broken Knowledge". The edges of the pages are curled and creased like the suit jacket you wore when I saw you last. I hold the book as though by some miracle you can feel the warmth of my wretched fingers. But you can't. Everyone sitting at that table with me was yearning to hold you but settled for cold leather bound books of your written words. Wherever you may have gone, we now wonder if you ever realized how many people you truly touched.
We read your written words to a room full of people, most of which knew that you had passed, knew that you were a great man and a great professor; but knew little beyond that. I read your poem "If Not The Wind" to the understanding crowd that sat attentively, eager to hear the words of the man that so many people are grieving. It was so difficult for me to do it, but I knew that I had to. I had to tuck my fears in to my back pocket and read it for you; for your honor, for the lessons you have taught me, the journeys that we've shared, for the memories we've made, and for the tears that we've cried. You did not fear the wind in the poem, and I know that you did not fear the wind in the end.
On the way back to my car, I whispered into the night wind my truest emotions for you. And I knew that I was being selfish in thinking that you heard me, that you were watching over me. I hope that you do drop in once in a while and take notice of how you have truly left a heavy thumbprint on my life.
To me, you are that dancing star. Even though it never danced, the man it was branded on was a bright light in a dark place. You were that hope and guidance for me, the girls, and every other student you've had. As I am sure, your fellow professors and scholars felt that you were the same for them.
You are loved.
You will be sorely missed,
but we will always have London.
We read your written words to a room full of people, most of which knew that you had passed, knew that you were a great man and a great professor; but knew little beyond that. I read your poem "If Not The Wind" to the understanding crowd that sat attentively, eager to hear the words of the man that so many people are grieving. It was so difficult for me to do it, but I knew that I had to. I had to tuck my fears in to my back pocket and read it for you; for your honor, for the lessons you have taught me, the journeys that we've shared, for the memories we've made, and for the tears that we've cried. You did not fear the wind in the poem, and I know that you did not fear the wind in the end.
On the way back to my car, I whispered into the night wind my truest emotions for you. And I knew that I was being selfish in thinking that you heard me, that you were watching over me. I hope that you do drop in once in a while and take notice of how you have truly left a heavy thumbprint on my life.
To me, you are that dancing star. Even though it never danced, the man it was branded on was a bright light in a dark place. You were that hope and guidance for me, the girls, and every other student you've had. As I am sure, your fellow professors and scholars felt that you were the same for them.
You are loved.
You will be sorely missed,
but we will always have London.
Rest In Peace
Mark Evan Johnston
August 22, 1945 - November 27, 2007
Mark Evan Johnston
August 22, 1945 - November 27, 2007
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