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.

Hi Gram

Hey, doll!

Happy Birthday!

You know you don’t need to send me any cards or anything.

I know, but it’s your birthday. Did you get the picture that Morgan sent?

With the ballerinas. I love it. I showed it to Helen when she came over to take me to the Dollar Store.

Oh really? Anything good at the Dollar Store.

I got some picture frames for the photos of the girls. I’m running out of room on the credenza over here.

You can always take down that picture of Christopher.

Be loving! How is that broken down brother of yours, anyway?

Broken-down. (laughter). Morgan wants to say hello.

Gramma, I-watched-a-show-and-then-we-had-chicken-nuggets-and-I-made-an-ice-rink-in-my-room-out-of-powder-and-when-you-boofah-it-goes-pbbbbtttt-and-then-you-go-sssstttt! Here’s Coever.

Heh-whoa? Heh-whoa! I wuv woo! Appa–soss! (drops the phone).

Hey, Gram, it’s me again.

Hey, doll. They are too much.

I know, I know. Listen, I know your stories are coming on, but I wanted to give you a quick call to say hi and wish you a Happy Birthday.

Okay, well you give Craig and the girls a big, ol‘ sloppy kiss.

You know I will. Happy Birthday, Gram. Love you.

Love you, too, doll.

April 11th, 2008. Today is your birthday, Gram. You would have been 89, I think. I miss you so and I feel tears stinging my eyes as I write this. I won’t delete your number from my speed dial although it has been over two years since you last answered at that number. I miss your voice when I would call you on the phone, the way you would say, “Hey, doll!” and always have time to talk to me. I miss the way you would chastise me for writing you thank you notes for simple things like birthday cards. I miss the way your home smelled of you, of Red Door. The way you would offer me anything and everything in your pantry, your fridge, your cupboards, even if I walked in bearing food.

Mom gave me a recipe box filled with some of your favorite recipes clipped from newspapers or written in your own hand (hello, fudge!). My eyes devoured them greedily. My nose inhaled the scent in that little tin box, so faint and yet so powerful and I was instantly5,6,7 years old, wrapped in your arms, sitting in your lap, being pulled out of the tub and stood on the toilet seat while you rubbed me dry with a towel before sprinkling me with Jean Nate and dusting me with a big powder pouf. This is how I will teach Morgan and Coever about you. I will give them these memories. I will show them your picture and I will tell them how much you loved them, even though you had only met Morgan once and Coever, not at all, because I know that for as much as you loved me, you didn’t have to know them to love them. You always loved them.

I miss you so much and I want to talk to you and tell you what has been going on. I want to tell you what the girls are up to. I want to hear you laugh when I tell you how Morgan wheedled me down into letting her watch “one show, but that’s it”. I want you to tell me how you told Helen and Aunt Saville that you’ve got to get out to get new frames to put up the pictures of the girls that we just sent to you. I want you to ask me, “how is that broken down brother of yours?” and I’ll gladly respond, “Broken-down.” I want you tell me to give Craig a “big ol’ sloppy kiss”. I want you to tell me to come on over any time when we next come up for a visit. I want to bring you that egg foo young you like so much and try to foist off on me after eating just a taste.

You’ve celebrated two birthdays since you’ve gone; I haven’t come to visit, I doubt I even had a moment of silence. I hope you understand the feelings are still so tender and raw. I’m stronger now and there are things that I want to do. I will hang Degas’ Ballerinas in the girls room. I will learn to make your fudge; commit it to memory even. I will run the Komen this year for you, Gram. I had willed myself not to cry at your memorial service. I don’t know why; my relucatance to grieve has only made it that much more powerful when I have given myself that chance. I saved Frye’s poem from the program, though. I like to think this was your way of reminding me of 28 years of memories we made. I love you, Gram. Happy Birthday.