On Cecil Robinson's Death
by W. Edward Morgan
Oct 1990

Roar in my
pain demented head.

-------------------------

If I believed in such things, W. Edward Morgan would be my Godfather. He is the reason for my existence, and surpassed only by my mother's obstetrician in being my oldest friend... longest and most elderly.

Ed was the lawyer in the case of Elfbrandt v. Russel in the U.S. Supreme Court. The case challenged the requirement that public school teachers sign an oath of loyalty to the U.S. Government, including a statement that you were not a communist. Barbara Elfbrandt was a tenured teacher at that point, so she could not be fired for refusing to sign the oath, but the school refused to pay her. A community of supporters formed around Barbara and her husband to provide support for them while the challenge was working its way through the system. My parents met on the campaign, and the rest is history...

Ed is now 84 I believe, and has survived prostate cancer, a stroke, and a crushed vertibrae in the last 10 years. A group of his friends gather for lunch at La Indita every Wednesday. He and Barbara are now married and they come religiously. Last Wednesday, Ed couldn't make it, but Barbara came and said he was asleep at home, and had been in pain through the night.

Today, I got a call from my father that he had been admitted to the ER that morning. I got dressed and went down there. Having been through this once before, I know not to waste any time. The scenario is almost identical. He has a mysterious pain in his back and hip that got to be excruciating. He is on morphine shots now and they want to do an MRI to see what's causing the pain. Ed even told me that the pain was so bad he was thinking of checking out.

So here I am again, in close proximity to that liminal space between life and death.

I went to see Pirates of the Carribean 3 last night. There is a scene where the ship goes to Davy Jones' Locker to rescue someone or other. The heroine sees her father in a dinghy drifting past the ship. She throws him a rope, but he doesn't take it. He just keeps drifting slowly past. They talk until he is out of sight. That's exactly what it's like. The person is there in front of you, but they are slipping away, so slowly that you think maybe you can still do something. But sooner or later, they drift out of reach... forever.

I have begun typing his poetry, but not fast enough. I wanted to tape record his stories of being a civil rights attorney in Tucson, but I didn't do it. Maybe now it's too late.