here, not there

We haven’t visited Eddie’s grave since his funeral. Visiting a cemetery implies that our darling baby boy is there, away from his mummy and daddy. It’s too hard to fathom. His shell may be there but I believe his soul and spirit is here. With me. With Chris.

Over the past 6 months I have dipped in and out of bereavement books, read and re-read beautiful poetry and prose. They have become a companion on my journey of grief.

And so today, as I think about the reasons why I choose not to visit Eddie’s grave, I refer to a poem written by Mary Frye.

Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep

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 glint on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you wake in the morning hush,
I am the swift, uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft starlight at night.
Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep.
Do not stand at my grave and cry.
I am not there, I did not die!

Mary Frye (1932)

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2 responses to “here, not there

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