“In the week after his death, a casualty assistance officer sat at my kitchen table and asked if I would like to be notified if the military found partial remains, the pieces of my husband’s body that might be recovered from the crash site after his funeral. Outside a late-autumn storm was building and the air in the room was damp. The officer passed a form across the table and handed me a ballpoint pen, and I realized that this was war. Not the talk of strategy or politics, munitions or taxation; not the discussions on fiscal costs or boots on the ground jingoism. But a life disassembled, pieces trickling in over time.”—A wife remembers her husband killed in Iraq in 2006.
“The real victims of marijuana prohibition aren’t stoners who won’t live up to their full potential, it’s the tens of thousands of young men and women thrown into jail for smoking weed.”—Sorry David Brooks.
I’d intended for the post below to be the final one here, but then this just happened at Nelson Mandela’s memorial service—not exactly a funeral, to be fair, but I’ll just go ahead and take credit for the whole thing. Thank you, world, and good night!