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
Rest In Peace Grandpa Ron. I will always remember your eccentricity–you calling me Miss America, asking me about Softball even though I quit years ago, asking about my record deal or whatever it was…and of course teasing me about school. I remember you sneaking Mel and I drinks…haha. You are face-to-face with Jesus today, and I hope that you’ll be able to stay with Him.