The canopy over the freshly dug grave isn’t nearly big enough to keep all of us dry.

So we surround it on all sides with umbrellas and try to keep from poking each other’s eyes out as we say our final prayers — and goodbyes.

I am literally standing on Grandma Trudi’s grave and thinking of one of her favorite quips — the one about shivering and someone or something running across your grave.   A mouse?

She might have a chuckle over this —

If she wasn’t so sad.

A little over a year ago we brought her here to rest beside grandpa.  Today the ground opposite him is open for their youngest son.

Their baby. 

I am thinking about the months and days and moments of grace leading up to this gathering when I extend my hand to take the rose my cousin offers. 

Yellow — she  said the day before —

For friendship, peace and joy.

I bow my head and bury my nose in the rich fragrance that seems more profound in the pouring rain.  When I lift my eyes, I watch her place the last few dots of yellow to close the huge arc she’s been making—

Erasing the beginning —

And the ending —

With this beautiful symbol of eternity —

This ginormous circle of people that says it all.

The only thing that really matters in life are your relationships to other people.

My art flows from the patterns & paths of my lived experience which ⏤ like yours ⏤ are at once deeply personal and entirely universal.

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