Daniela:

This week, as I struggled to write a eulogy for Mike, a good friend wrote these words to me:

"With every breath, may I take you in, hold you and behold you, see your perfection and release you in the larger perfection of life. I am so fortunate and honored that you have touched me – I am who I am because of your love for me – a thousand thank yous would only open the book of my gratitude for you."

With these words I will begin to convey Mike's essence from my heart which knows him so well, loves him so much, and has been broken so painfully.

Mike was born in Brooklyn, N.Y. and named Michael Angelo, the third son to his parents Mike and Connie. He excelled in school and became a die-hard NY Giants and NY Yankees fan. He worked his way through college, and began his career at J.P. Morgan in 1980, where he made lifelong friends. Two years later on Christmas Eve 1982, at a luncheon with other J.P, Morgan employees, we met and our lives changed forever.

Mike loved to play golf, and to ski, to watch football games, and to see movies. He enjoyed traveling and meeting new people. He loved me and our daughter Gillian and he always protected us. His commitment and loyalty to our home and family was unwavering. He was strong in his convictions, and enthusiastically enjoyed a good discussion.

What you probably don't know about Mike is how he loved to purposely change the words to funnier lyrics when he sang, or how he would dance with me in our home, alone and in front of Gillian, to teach her from the start what a happy marriage was all about. Every time we shared a glass of wine or a pint of beer, we would clink glasses and he would make a toast; "There's always a reason to toast," he'd say. He would make sure that I took my vitamins and put on plenty of sunblock. He would sing to Gillian on her few restless nights. He would spend countless hours working on his fantasy football league draft, finding it both frustrating and rewarding at the same time. He would enjoy dinner with friends and family, whether it was Dom Perignon and parmigianno reggiano, or hotdogs and homemade wine. He would enjoy a good cigar, a large family party, or a quiet dinner and movie at home with Chinese food. If you asked Mike why his favorite movie was "Casablanca", he would simply reply, "Because it's about doing the right thing."

As many of you know, this past year was one of Mike's happiest. When our daughter Gillian joined our lives everything became clearer, more defined. Mike no longer worried about the minutia that life often presents us with. He was happier than ever before. We made plans for Gillian's future, her first Halloween, her first Christmas. He shared with me his ideas on how we would teach her the ethics we both valued through example. He shared moments of clarity with me, even until the night before his death, and for these last few months I am forever grateful.

I sustain an unquenchable thirst to see him one more time, walking through the door coming home from work, as he often did, smiling and saying, "How are my girls today?" His eyes would light up, he would kiss us hello and everything outside that precious moment was irrelevant.

Emerson said, "It is not length of life, but depth of life."

If we are to take anything with us from our blessing of knowing Mike, let us include a lesson in integrity and honor, honesty and courage. Let his memory be about doing the right thing, not just the convenient choice. Let his memory be welcomed in our hearts often, and openly. Gillian and I are so lucky to have had him in our lives. Fate brought us together, love kept us together, and his spirit will be in our hearts forever.

Joe:

Today, we have come together to memorialize my first cousin, Michael Gogliormella. The gnawing emptiness that has become our lives has changed us all, and we feel as though life as we knew it will never be the same. And so we gather, as faith instructs, to mourn deep and lasting loss, and to offer, through our communal grief, a small measure of comfort. It is all we have. In doing so, I would at this time like to speak in a personal way about my cousin Mickey.

In a poem designed to offer comfort to those in grief, the Romantic poet William Wordsworth said:

A Power is passing from the earth
To breathless Nature's dark abyss;
But when the great and good depart,
What is it more than this-

That Man who is from God sent forth
Doth yet again to God return?-
Such ebb and flow must ever be,
Then wherefore do we mourn?

Wordsworth is providing comfort for those who mourn by reminding us that death is a natural part of a cycle that returns us home. Why then should we mourn? The fact that so many, in so short a time have done so, has shattered the normalcy of the ebb and flow of life and death. And so, we mourn. And so, we remember.

My first cousin Mickey, who was more to me like a brother, and I were born in the same year in Brooklyn, NY. We grew up together and enthusiastically consumed the richness and closeness of our families. Like others from our generation, Mickey internalized the values of our family and applied them to the way in which he lived his life. He was a man of high moral fiber and impeccable integrity. We are part of a generation who came to know a life of peace and relative predictability. We were slightly too young for Vietnam, and certainly too old for the Persian Gulf War. We found comfort in a peace that was hard won by the generation of our fathers, and felt secure in the warmth of our close-knit extended family.

Mickey and I shared times of joy and times of sorrow. We suffered through childhood illnesses, blew out birthday candles, sat together at the kiddie table during Christmas feasts and shared the secrets of boyhood. We spent every New Year's Eve together from the 60's through the 80's. And every time I walk into a warm house on Christmas and am greeted by the aroma of a cooking feast, or watch the ball drop in Times Square, I will remember my cousin. For the sphere of our lives was as cohesive as one of Aunt Connie's riceballs and the memories of my cousin are as sweet as Aunt Jo's strufali. And oh what a table Mickey is seated at now.

Every Sunday I would visit my cousins, and we would join in the vibrant life of the Brooklyn streets. We played stickball, football, and whiffle ball. Mickey would invent rules for the game, and we would faithfully abide by them. In the summer of 1967, Mickey, Jerry, and I played little league baseball, proudly wearing the white flannel uniforms with red trim of Saint Francis Cabrini. Because we often did not get a chance to cross home plate, we would run the bases after the game was over. We seemed to have found great joy in this activity. It occurs to me now that the one constant in our lives was that we could always return home. Our generation knew that our endeavors would always come full circle and return us home again.

As Mickey grew from boyhood into manhood, we stood firmly by each other. When he asked me to be his best man over beers at the South Street Seaport, it was an honor. There, in the shadow of the twin towers, we promised to stand up for each other always. When I learned that Daniela and Mickey had been blessed with Gillian, I was overjoyed. Mickey was rounding the bases again, confident in the fact that he was coming home. On September 11, I know he had the same feeling, and I know that I have lost more than a cousin, a brother and a friend. How does one measure a generation? Perhaps it is by what we have gained, but more likely it is by what we have lost. Or, what we can hold onto from what we remember. This is why I mourn today. The memories of my cousin Mickey will remind me of what we have all lost, and to the world to which we must strive to return. Now I am certain that my childhood is over. Not because I can no longer hit a spaldeen two sewer lengths, but because it is buried under twisted steel and concrete debris. And so I mourn. And so I remember. I call upon all of you who are present here today to keep the memory of Michael, Mike, and Mickey forever in your hearts. Not only because he was a dear husband, father, brother, nephew, cousin, friend, neighbor, and colleague, but because his loss reminds us of who we were and to where we must return. God bless his memory. God bless his family. God bless us all. And God bless the United States of America.