The casket was ajar, but there was no lifeless face to stare into, no cold body stiffened with death. Instead his gun lay there like a trophy, the barrel warped and half-melted into an ugly crescent, dripping metal soldified in that twisted shape.

Beside the gun were charred black shreds of fabric, scattered limply on the purple velvet—his clothes. If you looked at them too long, you might convince yourself you could see his blood.

It could narrowly be considered a funeral. There was no priest to assure everyone he was in a better place. There were no family members embracing each other.

But there was rage.

It was palpable; it seeped from the artifacts and into every mourner. It burned only faintly in most, but others, it was dangerous to near them for fear of being burned.

There was smoldering kindling in each of our hearts, but only one woman was brave enough feed it.

She pounded on the podium and spit when she yelled. She called him a hero because he stole that gun and downed that airborne aircraft carrier. She called him a martyr because he went down with it. And she called him a revolutionary because he didn’t take what was given to him.

I loved him a great deal more than I wanted to, but he was no hero, no martyr. Even though I loved him, I left the others.

Just maybe he was a revolutionary, but I wasn’t. The rage burned in me, too, but when you play with fire, you get burned.