Tribes like ours, and yours, who are reading this, owe it to their brothers to make a better thing of a man’s death than the modern world- tearful men and women around an expensive casket as it is lowered into the earth.
Hushed voices at a wake, and a few stories over the years. We should light the fires for them each year on the anniversary of their death, and sing their songs, tell their stories, laugh and cry for their passing- celebrate them as gone beyond a mere life and become a tribal hero, eternal.
Seeing a young man who all considered to be a brother, as close as blood, die- life unrealized, full of potential that would never be made manifest, is a difficult thing.
He had done so much, but there was so much more undone.
Through death, my brother has become an ideal, a concept of togetherness and shared pain, and fellowship so strong that it often hurts.