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 Elizabeth Frye
Burial Ground, Columbia River, October 2015.
In the first six months after my father passed away, I struggled with where he went; I had no sense of where he’d gone. It was unbelievably disconcerting.
When visiting his grave, I don’t feel his presence in the least. I am left to believe he is not there, which begs the question, “where is he?”
I don’t believe “death” is the end.
Where will you go?