Goodby

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 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.
-jane ormes-

July 30, 1918 - July 21, 2009

The Ending

I came home yesterday afternoon. This morning I take an early walk, before the heavy heat of the day sets in, and I stand for a while near my favorite tree, the Old Druid. I'm not sure why this tree has such significance for me but it seems to talk to me. It's not a big Oak tree and it's leaning toward the west, over the road. It was damaged at some time in it's life; maybe by a lightening strike or fire. The lower part of the trunk is split and the inside is exposed. I understand how this tree feels. It must stay strong if it is to survive and others rely on it for protection and food. The squirrels always run to another tree when I come down the road but return as soon as I leave. Maybe it's the cat they run from. She is with me, prancing along, sniffing the place where we saw the foxes cross the road earlier this morning.
As I unpack from a week away, the phone rings. It's my brother-in-law. He tells me that Mom is not doing well and seems to be losing her hold on life faster than we expected. I will wait to hear from my sister this afternoon and I will go back down tomorrow.

Old Oak Tree. I heard what you said this morning...., your quiet whisper, a voice that reached inside of me,..., it will be what it will be. I heard you. I was listening.

My sister called...,