Let the shadowless light bathe and immolate us in love for one another incandescent.

100105 21:55
When Randy died I experienced relief, not for me, or him, but us both.
I continue in my awareness and gratitude the gifts of The Cranston Funeral Home. Dave carrying Randy down, cruciform--arms outstretched--down a narrow, corkscrew stair--the last time I saw Randy’s face. He was finally in peace.
We requested no embalming his body since he’d been, in life, a human pincushion.
Patty Cranston called, later on, to say that he was dressed and she’d set candles around him. We didn’t go. They, the Cranston family, donated a burial plot, and head stone, in their family grave site. Gave a Styrofoam coffin, and buried him for free; we were that poor then. I have always found peace in cemeteries, I still do. Yet the next day when he was buried I fell to the ground in uncontrollable grief. I remained in grief for 33 years until, at or around, his 43rd birthday, had he lived.
I will spare you the farther details of my life and instead dwell upon ours about to expire.
It may merely be my death song, this concern the world’s end, mine alone.
An event un-remarked since there will be none left to sing the eulogy.
As for my last request I will be cremated and my ashes spread upon the desert--no words requested or required--no marker unless my beloved friend is otherwise occupied and places the plain brown box with my ashes in a plastic bag in the nearest dumpster.
We are born alone and die alone in the final equality of death, and no marker significant will withstand the sands of time grinding it back into dust along with us.
Death slow, swift, meaningful or meaningless, does not diminishes the nobility I experience in all of you and all our life here and now.
The Gifts of God are magnificent as you are, or allow yourself to be; generous or penurious. I curse no one now yet know the wrath of myself too well to forget it. Forgiveness is a wealth that few give and fewer receive and acknowledging the author.
Let the shadowless light bathe and immolate us in love for one another incandescent.
In closing I can only record, this date, this hour, that I was lead to read John Donne’s “Meditation XVII”
‘for whom the bell tolls’ it tolls for us. Now. Tomorrow. This year or next, inevitably, life has no meaning without death.
Continued . . .