He hasn’t died

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 Frye

In a condolence card, my friend wrote this for me to describe that although my brother is no longer with us physically, he is still with us through me. By knowing and interacting with me, they are also knowing him, as well.

Not a minute of any day goes by when I do not think of Ed. Being in the house where we were raised and grew up together the last few days makes me feel aching sensations that have no physical cause. Seeing his favorite soap (Lever 2000) and his favorite shampoo (Head & Shoulders), and seeing the many gifts he’s given our family and this house hurts. Curious George, Nemo, the Bless this Home serving platter, my flannel bed sheets, my comforter and cover, kitchen utensils, all the thick, hotel-quality towels in our towel closet – he is everywhere. He really hasn’t died, even though he has physically.

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