pondering this

"I awoke still weeping, my first real tears for him-and for me, his jailor, his judge, his son.  I turned on the light and dug out his old letters.  I remembered his only visit-the basketball he had given me and how he had taught me to dance.  And I realized, perhaps for the first time, how even in his absence his strong image had given me some bulwark on which to grow up, an image to live up to, or disappoint."

Barack Obama, Dreams from My Father