Snowflakes, delicate and ethereal, weave their way through the somber sky, hesitant to find their place on the cold ground below. The chill seeps into my black dress, too feminine, too willowy, a stark juxtaposition to the gear that usually adorns me, gear designed for action and not for mourning. Sitting rigidly in the front row, my muscles ache with the urge to act, to do something, anything, other than remain here.
The crowd enveloping me is a sea of faces – superheroes hailing from every corner of the East Coast, students whose lives were forever shaped by the Professor’s teachings, and a multitude of Philadelphians who held him in the highest regard. They encircle the grave at Laurel Hill Cemetery, the very place where Franklin’s remarkable journey began and now finds its end. Such a gathering has never graced the streets of Strawberry Mansion before. I doubt it ever will again.
Jim Cramer’s usually vivacious voice takes on a solemn tone as he concludes his speech. His words, filled with both admiration and sorrow, linger heavily in the wintry air. I find myself nodding along, acknowledging the truth in his sentiments, yet still feeling somewhat detached.
As Jim steps away, yielding his place to the reverend, a hushed anticipation spreads through the crowd. “And now, I invite Liberty Belle, Professor Franklin’s protege and designated successor, to gift us with her thoughts.” A ripple of movement sweeps through the onlookers, all eyes turning toward me.
I rise to my feet, sensing the weight of countless eyes upon me as I navigate my way to the podium. It feels peculiar not to have my trusty gear clutched in my hands. The snowflakes seem to pause, suspended in mid-air, as I gaze out at the multitude before me, gathering my thoughts.
“I am grateful to each and every one of you for gracing us with your presence today,” I begin, my voice resolute despite the maelstrom of emotions within. “Professor Franklin was a man who left an indelible mark on countless lives, and the sheer magnitude of this assembly bears testimony to that fact.”
Taking a moment to let my eyes sweep over the crowd, I see faces etched with grief, reverence, and a shared melancholy. “He transcended the mere role of a mentor; he was a beacon of light, a glimmer of hope in a world that often descends into darkness.”
I clear my throat softly, feeling the hush of the crowd. “I remember the first time I met Professor Franklin. It was in the midst of chaos, a city block in danger, and there he was — calm in the middle of the storm. His ability to see things clearly when others were confused… that was one of his greatest strengths.”
A slight smile pulls on my face, even through the misery. “He had this incredible talent for turning even the most serious situations into opportunities to learn. To him, every crisis was a chance to grow. I remember one time, when I was starting out, I made a really dumb decision during a mission. Instead of scolding me, he simply asked, ‘What did you learn?’ He never stopped being a teacher, even when he was being a superhero.”
I pause, letting the memory linger in the air. “His contributions to our community were immeasurable. Not just as a leader and a hero, but as someone who guided the next generation. He believed in the potential of young minds. He cared about people. And that’s what made him an exceptional hero and a great person.”
My voice becomes softer, more thoughtful. I find it hard to force out from the depths of my throat, but I manage. “The void he left behind is enormous. It’s not just felt by those of us who knew him personally, but by the whole community he dedicated his life to serving. He was a pillar, a constant in a world that’s always changing. Now, we’re in unfamiliar territory, dealing with the loss of his guidance and wisdom.”
I look at the crowd again, seeing their uncertain expressions reflect my own emotions. “Continuing his legacy won’t be easy. We all feel the weight of that responsibility. But we’re also privileged. He taught us values that go beyond chasing justice in the streets — empathy, honesty, a relentless pursuit of what’s right. These are the gifts he gave us, and it’s up to us to keep them alive even without him.”
I take a deep breath, squeezing the sides of the podium. “We honor him not just by mourning, but by taking action. By committing ourselves to the work he believed in so strongly. By being the heroes he knew we could be. That’s how we keep his spirit alive. That’s how we make sure his legacy lives on.”
Shifting slightly, I bring the focus to my personal journey. I try to keep it to the lines I memorized. Recited in front of a mirror, polished to a razor’s edge. “Professor Franklin influenced my life in more ways than I can count. He saw potential in me when I doubted myself, guided me through moments of uncertainty, and celebrated my successes as if they were his own.”
I grip the podium tighter, trying hard not to dent it. I don’t like making speeches like this. I don’t like feeling this way. It’s miserable. “There was a time when I was ready to give up, to walk away from all of this. The weight of being a hero, the constant battles, it all felt like too much. It was Professor Franklin who sat me down and said, ‘Liberty Belle, the day you stop feeling the weight is the day you should hang up your cape. It’s that very burden that makes you a hero.’ That conversation was a turning point for me. It’s why I’m still here, why I continue to fight.”
My gaze drifts to the coffin, head turning. “He didn’t just teach me how to be a better hero; he taught me how to be a better person. His guidance, his wisdom, his unwavering support… I owe so much of who I am to him. As we stand here today, amidst the sorrow and memories, it’s important to look forward with hope. Hope that was kindled and nurtured by Professor Franklin’s unwavering spirit and dedication. He may have left us, but the path he charted remains, a guiding light into the future.”
I sweep my gaze across the sea of faces, each carrying a piece of the sorrow and legacy we share. “In moments like these, it’s easy to feel lost, adrift in the enormity of our loss. But remember, we’re not alone. We have each other. In our unity, in our continued fight for justice and peace, his spirit endures.”
I pause. I take a moment not to break down into tears, not in front of all these people. I have to be strong. I must be strong. “To all of you who mourn today, know that your grief is shared, your loss acknowledged. But also know that in each of us, the best parts of Professor Franklin live on. It’s up to us to continue his work, to uphold the ideals he fought so tirelessly for. To defend justice, to protect the weak, and to carry on the brotherly spirit of this great city he proudly called home.”
I feel a lump form in my throat as I prepare for my final words. “And so, to you, Professor Franklin, I say this: Thank you. Thank you for your guidance, your wisdom, and your unshakable faith in us. You’ve left an indelible mark on our lives, and while we will miss you deeply, we will honor your memory in the best way we know how — by living up to the example you set.”
My voice is steady, but my heart is heavy. “Goodbye, Professor. May your journey be peaceful, and your legacy eternal. We will not forget you. We will continue the fight, in your name, for a better world.”
With a final nod to the coffin and a deep, steadying breath, I step away from the podium. The snowflakes, now a silent cascade, seem to carry my words up and away, a whisper to the heavens. As the reverend speaks his last, the void opens back up within me. I remember his final words, the feeling of his gloves against my hands. The way I held him as he died in the rain. It all comes back, all at once, pounding into me like a sledgehammer. I feel the pain building behind my chest, right beneath my ribs. It hurts so much, too much.
I tune out the rest of the world as the coffin begins to lower. I put a hand up to my face, to shield my eyes, and begin to cry.
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