Horseman pass by.

My first cousin, Liz Kay, passed away this week after a long battle with cancer.  Her mother, Ann, was one of my Fathers sisters.  She also died of cancer, leaving a young family.  I grew up knowing my cousin as Lillian McKenna.  Then we were told to stop calling her Lillian, that her name was Elizabeth.  This then became Liz.  That seems to happen with a lot of Irish names.  My father started life as Patrick.  As a young man everyone knew him as Pat.  As he aged he became Paddy.


Liz was a model to anyone suffering from a long illness.  To the very end she remained upbeat and positive.  She treated her illness as an intruder into her life, a monster eating away at her, but not part of her, not her.  She fought it.  She fought with diet, medicine, positive attitude, any weapon available to her.  In the end she died, but I don’t think she was ever defeated.


She brightened the world for all those around her.  She always behaved like a lady.  She radiated positive energy, smiling and interacting with everyone.  In the absence of her light the world is just that little bit of a darker place.


On Another’s Sorrow; By William Blake


Can I see another’s woe,
And not be in sorrow too?
Can I see another’s grief,
And not seek for kind relief?

Can I see a falling tear,
And not feel my sorrow’s share?
Can a father see his child
Weep, nor be with sorrow filled?

Can a mother sit and hear
An infant groan, an infant fear?
No, no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!
And can He who smiles on all
Hear the wren with sorrows small,
Hear the small bird’s grief and care,
Hear the woes that infants bear —

And not sit beside the next,
Pouring pity in their breast,
And not sit the cradle near,
Weeping tear on infant’s tear?

And not sit both night and day,
Wiping all our tears away?
Oh no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!
He doth give his joy to all:
He becomes an infant small,
He becomes a man of woe,
He doth feel the sorrow too.

Think not thou canst sigh a sigh,
And thy Maker is not by:
Think not thou canst weep a tear,
And thy Maker is not near.

Oh He gives to us his joy,
That our grief He may destroy:
Till our grief is fled an gone
He doth sit by us and moan.

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