Being Here

In the past couple of weeks, a number of my friends have lost their fathers. In every case it brings to mind how I felt when my own father died, at the relatively early age of 68. Yet, when I saw the "shell" that housed his soul on this earthly plane, I could not really feel that he was there any more. I knew that he had winged his way to another realm - some "where" he would no longer feel pain or sadness or disappointment, but exist purely in the spirit. And when I think of him, I like how my mother puts it, that when she looks out of the window at the trees in the garden - the almond tree in bloom in the spring in particular - she feels his presence. He was so often in the garden, tending it with care, nurturing the vegetables, pruning the roses, installing a complex automatic drip watering system, or sitting smoking his pipe in an old cane basket chair. That's why I like this poem by Mary Frye:

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 sun 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.