A Toast

Today I offer up a toast for the late Edgar Allan Poe. Today he would be celebrating his 202nd birthday. His particular brand of macabre has left its mark on many of today’s writers, me included.

Alas, this day doesn’t go by without some extra mourning. The mysterious toaster, that for more than sixty years visited Mr. Poe’s grave site on this day, has for the second year in a row, not shown. As reported by The Washington Post, there were impostors eager to fill shoes, but none portrayed a convincing act.

This saddens me, but at the same time I’m glad. Glad that there is still some mystery in the world worth keeping mysterious. I doubt WikiLeaks will cover this. I’m free to let my imagination run wild.

I makes me hope that when I’m long gone from this world, some one will feel the urge recognize me in such a way. Though it might be less formal than a half bottle of cognac and three roses. Maybe a Guinness and tin of Altoids.

How would you want to be paid tribute to? Or, how do you think you would be paid tribute to?

While you ponder that, I’ll leave you with The Raven as read by James Earl Jones.


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