This one, then is for the men who destroyed themselves that others might live. I write for my father, the saxman and my uncle, the painter. For the men who let their bodies be the bridge between the past and the future. Who remained firm, refused to break – broke anyway. For the misplaced aggression, for the protection, for the control – for the balance.
I write for the men who had mastered the art of stability, love, presence. Who were there even when their bodies were screaming leave. Who followed the rules no matter what it meant to them. Who chased their demons around the world looking for understanding. Who still question.
Who persist, who give space, who come back, who come back, who come back, who come back, again. Who have sacrificed at the same altar that scarred their past. Who were torn, shared, distributed. Who were unselved.
Who stayed, who strayed.
Who stood in death’s way with quivering feet.
For the shoulders that got weary, but knew no rest.
For the gypsy men. Who danced around the world, who spoke, who listened, who learned, who spread knowledge. I write for the exchange, for the hours of debate, the circles and circles of logic that gave another inch. Another inch. Another inch.
Who threw their bodies in the toil towards the dream. Who shared, who loved, who lived, who laughed, who tried.
Who kept trying.
Who keep trying.