Alexi was perhaps the kindest person from our class.
Every couple of years I made it back to Mocksville and swung by the Public Library to see a friend. I would look over the the clock dedicated in Alexi's memory and think fondly of her earnestness in school and her fierce bravery to ask every question she had, a skill that would have served the rest of her classmates well. I would admire the handsome workmanship of the clock.
My father died in 2004, shortly before our 15th year class reunion. I escaped the bustle of my childhood home and went to the Davie County Public Library to write the eulogy I was to deliver. I wrote it in the shadow of the clock dedicated to Alexi.
The next day, I delivered my father's eulogy to his congregation. My father had died at the young age of 55. I spoke of the considerable accomplishments of his life, his trips, his fulfilled dreams, and his loving friends.
While it caused deep pain and taxed my strength, I considered myself the only person that could speak for my father after he passed. He had crammed so much living into those years he had with us. In my closing, I renounced my anger at God and thanked him for the life he had allowed my father to lead.
Since my father's death, I have chosen not to approach the clock in the Public Library honoring Alexi. As strange as it seems, my father's passing and Alexi's passing are now intertwined as I consider the lost opportunities that were carried away by an unexpected breeze. I fear my heart would break if I came too near the clock. Some day, when enough time has passed, I'll admire that clock again.
Robert Ligon
Alexi was perhaps the kindest person from our class.Every couple of years I made it back to Mocksville and swung by the Public Library to see a friend. I would look over the the clock dedicated in Alexi's memory and think fondly of her earnestness in school and her fierce bravery to ask every question she had, a skill that would have served the rest of her classmates well. I would admire the handsome workmanship of the clock.
My father died in 2004, shortly before our 15th year class reunion. I escaped the bustle of my childhood home and went to the Davie County Public Library to write the eulogy I was to deliver. I wrote it in the shadow of the clock dedicated to Alexi.
The next day, I delivered my father's eulogy to his congregation. My father had died at the young age of 55. I spoke of the considerable accomplishments of his life, his trips, his fulfilled dreams, and his loving friends.
While it caused deep pain and taxed my strength, I considered myself the only person that could speak for my father after he passed. He had crammed so much living into those years he had with us. In my closing, I renounced my anger at God and thanked him for the life he had allowed my father to lead.
Since my father's death, I have chosen not to approach the clock in the Public Library honoring Alexi. As strange as it seems, my father's passing and Alexi's passing are now intertwined as I consider the lost opportunities that were carried away by an unexpected breeze. I fear my heart would break if I came too near the clock. Some day, when enough time has passed, I'll admire that clock again.
Robert Ligon