The sun pierces through a black sky onto the silver grayness of the lunar surface, while crater rims cast eerie shadows over a dead landscape. Each crater marks the violent end of a heavenly body, but announces a magnificent birth of change on an airless canvas. This great masterpiece lay unseen, always hiding, on the dark side of the Moon. For millennia, the landscape remains untouched, frozen in time. A painting brushed by the hand of God, only to be disturbed by machines of man.

A small group stands around the rectangular pit cut into the lunar crust. This dark, dead hole is a fitting tribute to the body in the coffin beside them. No one is morning his passing. No one dares.

This mortal husk once held the vilest of evils, the most sinister of personalities, a soul so drenched in deceit and hatred that only the dead could know the truth.

Mike Sinclair, a respected media columnist, watches the two Marines callously drop the coffin into the grave. Mike feels a muffled thud through his boots as it impacts. The Marine detail begins to push the lunar dirt over the coffin. Mike sighs heavily. The environmental suit’s audio pick-up transmits it to everyone.

“What?” queries one of the group.

Mike answers, “I feel like we should say something. Uhh…you know, pay our last respects.”

Everyone looks up. Some of them not realizing who is making the suggestion. Mike can imagine the scowls and expressions of disbelief on the faces behind the mirrored visors. A Marine throws down his shovel and walks away. The suited figure bouncing in the low lunar gravity, his disgust evident in his movements, as he mumbles curses entering one of the lunar vehicles. His radio shuts off when the hatch cycles closed, but his emotions still ripple through the funeral group.

“You’ll have to forgive PFC Dobbs, sir,” says a pressure suited figure with Sergeant’s rank on his sleeves. “He lost his family because of…,” he motions to the figure in the grave, “HIM.”

“Mister Sinclair,” begins a suited figure, this one with a Presidential Seal on the sleeve, “you can say a few words, if you like. He may not have been a saint, but he was still human.”

“Barely,” someone added.

They all gather at the foot of the grave while Mike makes his way to the head. The low lunar gravity seems to hold the dust in mid-flight, a melodramatic, gray fog. Mike crosses his hands in front of his body, takes a deep breath, collects his thoughts and begins.

“We are here today, not to despise this man, but to honor him. In light of his atrocities, how can we even begin to respect him, let alone honor him. Many good people have died because of his callousness, his lack of compassion, his need for control; but yet he was…is human and that requires the need for courtesy and decency. For that reason, we take this time to reflect.”

“He was accused of being uncompassionate and unfeeling to the needs of our nation. He stood accused of lying so that he should be elected to hold the highest office in the Free World. No one ever found the truth of his origins, nor proved the allegations of his past; but the people knew. They felt it in their hearts, their minds that the radios, televisions, newspapers and Internet echoed. He never denied the charges and, in his silence, we pressumed his guilt.”

“He cheated the poor out of their just rewards. He took from them their Welfare, Food Stamps and healthcare. He used words like ‘pride,’ ‘honor’ and ‘work’ as the poor lost homes, cars and stereos. His heart was of stone. While the just people rioted and burned homes in protest, he stood before a nation and called them ‘thugs and criminals.’ He claimed the nation’s money was better spent in space than supporting a growing generation of panhandlers.”

“Then the wars began. First in the Middle East, then Moscow, after that…who knew where. He sent our nation’s sons and daughters to die on foreign soil. We screamed, ‘Bring them home!’ and he ignored our pleas, claiming it was all for our national security.”

“He tortured our nation, mutilated our right to freedom and we allowed him. His achievements are our failures. His happiness is our pain.”

“Thank God, we were able to put things right and see the folly of his ways. With the help of the media, patriots all, we placed him on trial, convicted him for his crimes against humanity and sentenced him. His trial was just a formality for we knew he was guilty. There was no other choice, someone had to pay for the pain and suffering. Someone had to repay the debt owed to the parents and families who lost loved ones fighting a faceless enemy. It was his own fault.”

“Now, we stand here on this airless world because our nation has no place for him. No place for his remains to rest. No state would allow him peace. No nation would honor his body. So, we gather here, to honor who some have called ‘traitor,’ with a tomb in dead ground on a forgotten side of the Moon. This is not a man without a nation, but sadder still, a man with out a world. May he find peace in the hereafter.”

Mike motions to the Marines, “You can continue, honor has been served.”

The Presidential Aid walks over to Mike, “Nice job, Mike.”

Mike stares, the last few shovels of dirt settle on the grave, “I wonder, Bill.”

“What?” responds the Aid.

“He unified a nation that was tearing itself apart. He gave everyone a common enemy to hate and despise. He forced a nation to take notice and for that, at least, we owe him some sort of respect.”

“Come on, Mike,” Bill begins as they walk towards the rovers. “You’ll forget about this in a few hours. Besides, they’ll rewrite history a couple of decades from now and make him out to be a martyr. So, don’t worry.”

As the rover pulls away from the single, lonely grave, Mike stares back at the long shadow cast by the headstone and sees it fall with a fanfare of dust. Mike can’t suppress it. He had to laugh.