He could be kind. And that he was. He could be generous. And that he was. At times cruel. And that he had been. He could do all sorts of things. Sail a boat with one hand, and roll a cigarette with another. Change the oil in my car, and fix the pump in the basement. He was very good with my children, with wide open eyes of child-like wonder himself. But he himself was like that blissful martyr seeking some other deeper purpose. And in this he drew no boundaries, either for himself or anyone he knew. I think that had he felt called to sacrifice his own kin at the altar of G-d, in the end, so strong in him was this, I think he might have submitted. As though his own life and all in it became a careless trifle, and that human life itself were but a daily test for the sign of the divine. For the personal, he claimed, was second to the peerless contemplations of things that would by necessity continue to perplex us for millennia, and that he himself lived by some holy duty, long after any marriage was spent, or some lifetime gone. Yet for me, I could not abide; and drew my line in the sand. For I could not say that for me his way was enough, even if I had loved him, which I did. Not to give up so much of what mattered to me. I would not give up my life, or the effect of daily consequences upon the lives of the living—certainly not at the cost of my ending up feeling lesser about myself, even if for ages afterwards, I longed to be in his arms again.