I grew up surrounded by my Grandfather’s bookshelves. Stacked high with the Romantics, Victorians, and Transcendentalists, myriads of voices lined up in rows, classics which birthed my love for the written word. Sitting beneath these towers of authors’ musings intensified all the world’s beauty. So it only felt right that I read a sonnet from his treasure trove at my Grandfather’s graveside service.
Looking back, it wasn’t so much a reading as a declaration of my animosity with death.
I was in the anger stage of grief, because I felt like life had been stolen, his body had been taken; the gentle father-figure who had always, always offered security could no longer provide sanctuary. I was furious with Satan and his destruction, with Adam and Eve and their thirst to be like God, and at the sin present in my own self. Why must the wages of sin be death? How could we fail so fatally that death and disease had enough cunning to rob the earth of someone as true as he?
That day, I hated death, so John Donne’s poem Death Be Not Proud offered words to my lament. I read through stanzas that threatened to choke me, and my pulse danced with the rhyme scheme as tears fell. Through gritted teeth I hit the last line and with ardent finality the conclusion left my cracking lips:…continute reading at Joy of It.