My heartbeat raced as I got closer to the white steps–the first thing I could see was the massive marble right hand with erect fingers, the rest of his body comfortably seated while hidden behind Doric Columns. His fingers stretched long as if reaching for something dear to him. I thought to myself how lovely it would be to have shared this with my grandpa. Like Lincoln, he was an honorable, hardworking, ethical, decent individual. He taught me how to appreciate literature and poetry, to honor my word, to live a disciplined life and to stand by my ideals–I pray I have not failed him.
I lost him when I was 14 years old, but he’s someone I think of often. Particularly when having to make important decisions. “What would he think? How would he react? What is the correct thing to do in this situation?” are all common questions within my internal conversation.
He’s a sort of moral compass.
I wonder aside from the obvious, religion (which I’m not the biggest fan of–I take that back, which I am always researching and tend to find myself interrogating its pious idols regardless of denomination) from where is it that an individual get his or her “moral character”–What, in our childhood marks us as adults?
Cruz the Writing Muse