Tracy, Jeff, Michael, Bruce
Life, in any form, should be impossible; every moment,
however mundane, is a miracle. Very few people ever see that, and that is as it
should be; otherwise we might stand about all evening, staring at leaves of
grass. When I first read Walt Whitman, I saw that he knew the mundane miracle.
My brother, Jeff, also saw miracles at every turn of the world. He had no B.A.
or B.S., especially no BS. His word was truth, and you could count on it like
coins.
He was a robust man, an eighteenth century man, cutting through
the fog facade of politics, while felling a tree with an iron axe; laughing at
the foibles of religion, while whispering with the spirituality of a saint. He
held all people, of every station, in high esteem. He was my hero, even though
he was younger by four years; he had grace, wisdom, and rough-hewn character. I
thought he was invincible; death could not touch him. This day, he passed. He
is invincible; even in death, he cannot be touched, unless one could touch
everything at once.
There, reaching out, at the end of your fingertips, you will
find him, in the miracle.
