And not sit beside the nest
Pouring pity in their breast,
And not sit the cradle near
Weeping tear on infants tear.
We made a cruel world. My generation, my parents' generation. Too little caring. Too much hate, anger, and hurt. We talk a good game about protecting our children, but we leave too much on the table that might surely save their lives. Justin Foley died of a disease that, from its inception, thrives in silence. And there are a number of such diseases, a number of ills that thrive when we are silent about them. Because we let our fears, our shame, our twisted moral codes keep us in silence, as death stalks more children. I say, enough. Enough shifting blame. Enough pointing fingers. Enough confusing those who report the demage with those who cause it. Let us remember Justin for his accomplishments on the football field and the basketball court. Let us remember his smile that I am told melted a hundred hearts. But let's also remember his death with sorrow and determination that spur us to action.
“Here at last is a true lover,” said the Nightingale. “Night after night have I sung of him, though I knew him not: night after night have I told his story to the stars, and now I see him. His hair is dark as the hyacinth-blossom, and his lips are red as the rose of his desire; but passion has made his face like pale ivory, and sorrow has set her seal upon his brow.”