A Final, Poignant Message from Jory Sherman.
June 30, 2014
Jory Sherman penned the following words and asked that I publish them in the event that I lasted longer than he. Here are his final words, and his final message to us all: CP3
WHEN I BREATHE my last breath, there, all around you, my spirit will be.
I will be the gentle touch on your shoulder when you’re all alone.
I will be the breeze that kisses your face when you least expect it. I will be the finger in the slight zephyr that tousles your hair.
I will be the rustling noise in the corner of an empty room.
I will be the perfume of flowers on the hillside, the scent of pines and spruce trees on some special morning.
I will be the quail piping in the field, the meadowlark trilling in the sunshine.
When You hear Sinatra sing, you will hear my voice.
When you listen to a Chopin nocturne, those will be my fingers on the piano keys.
I will be in the orchestra playing Beethoven, Mozart, and Brahms. My own violin will soar above all the rest.
And when you look in a store window, my reflection will remind you of who I was.
My words will be between the lines of a poem by e.e.cummings, Dylan Thomas or Lorca in New York.
I will be the shadow in the moonlight of Debussy’s Clair de Lune.
I will be the hum on your lips when you are happy.
I will be in the wine you drink on New Year’s Eve. I will be the dance music in a high school gym.
I will be the tinkling wind chimes on your front porch.
And, I will be the snowflake that tinks on your hand when winter comes.
I will be the raindrop that falls on your face in early spring.
I will be the green sea whose combers unfurl like foamy flags on the shore.
I will be in your dreams at night when you least expect me, and I will be in puzzling disguise.
I will be everywhere at once and nowhere at all.
I will be spirit and remember my life on earth with sadness and pride.
I will listen to your prayers and feel the tug at my heart when you look at my picture.
I will be with my Father and wander the Universe at will.
I will see all Time and the splendor of the galaxies.
And, if my ashes be placed in a grave, I hope the marker reads these words from a poem by John Masefield: “Home is the sailor, home from the sea. And, the hunter, home from the hill.”
And, I will be with you. Always.