Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.
-Mary E Frye-
It was the strangest thing.
A gathering of people to gift a life now over back into the winds, into the earth.
To let her go.
Our family, huddled together like sheep on a hilltop against the finest wind and rain South Wales has to offer.
Maybe it's one of the reasons why we are all so tough.so stubborn.
Stood on the road where my Grandmother grew up.
Trying so hard not to cry, because that's not what we do...it didn't work, but I tried.
All that ash, that was what was left of her? I was holding her in a cup...and letting her fall into the wind, it was bizarre- funny even.and it was painful.that was when the tears came- automatic,unstoppable.
I had told my self this would be the turning point, it had to be. I don't think she would have wanted me to wallow in her loss, bursting in to tears everytime I saw an old lady in the street....
when we finally got back in our cars, I felt flat. that was it.she was actually gone. flecks of her misted over the hillside where she grew up.