Obituary of Tyson Lee Murphy

Age 25, of Windsor, passed away Monday, April 20, 2020. Born July 15, 1994 in Halifax, he was the son of Brian Murphy (Marlene Waskahat) and Joleen Brown. Tyson lived in Windsor most of his life other than the time he spent in Alberta with his father. He would visit his father in Alberta during the summer months and once old enough, he would work with him in the construction trades. Tyson missed his home in Nova Scotia and decided he belonged there. He worked most recently as a forklift operator for Maritime Paper in Dartmouth. He married Taylor Graves in September 2017. They had one child, Theodore Lawrence Murphy. Theo was the love of Tyson’s life. Seeing them together brought joy to everyone around them. Tyson’s passions were exercise (keeping physically fit), working with his hands and he loved football and fishing. He was a hard worker and loved his family. He will be missed greatly and never forgotten. Although he was a young man, there are so many wonderful memories to share. Tyson was extremely strong and able-bodied with a kind heart. Besides his parents and stepfather, Jason Arnold, Tyson is survived by wife, Taylor; son, Theodore, brothers, Shane MacAskill and Jesse Arnold; grandparents, Leanna Murphy, Fred Brown and Jean Leopold; as well as several aunts, uncles and cousins. Tyson was predeceased by his grandfather, John Murphy. Arrangements for cremation have been entrusted to DeMont Family Funeral Home & Cremation Service, 419 Albert Street, Windsor (902-798-8317). Due to the Covid-19 pandemic, a celebration of Tyson’s life will be held at a later date. In lieu of flowers, donations in memory of Tyson may be made to a charity of one’s choice. Messages of condolence may be sent to the family by visiting: www.demontfamilyfuneralhome.ca When Great Trees Fall By Maya Angelou When great trees fall, rocks on distant hills shudder, lions hunker down in tall grasses, and even elephants lumber after safety. When great trees fall in forests, small things recoil into silence, their senses eroded beyond fear. When great souls die, the air around us becomes light, rare, sterile. We breathe, briefly. Our eyes, briefly, see with a hurtful clarity. Our memory, suddenly sharpened, examines, gnaws on kind words unsaid, promised walks never taken. Great souls die and our reality, bound to them, takes leave of us. Our souls, dependent upon their nurture, now shrink, wizened. Our minds, formed and informed by their radiance, fall away. We are not so much maddened as reduced to the unutterable ignorance of dark, cold caves. And when great souls die, after a period peace blooms, slowly and always irregularly. Spaces fill with a kind of soothing electric vibration. Our senses, restored, never to be the same, whisper to us. They existed. They existed. We can be. Be and be better. For they existed.