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 circling flight.
I am the soft star-shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.
Mary Frye
——
I’ve been replaying in my head seeing his face in the crowd, vivid, as we stood behind the chain fence separating us from our comrades and our family. Our fists raised as they shook the fence and we waited to be taken away. The glee that shone on his face, that ever-present smile as he led our family in song, his voice clear and rising above the others.
I never seem to be able to get the chance to let them know how much they mean to me before they leave.
The movement makes us strong. The movement goes on. Your fight. Our fight.
