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!)

 

I read this poem that offered me a new way of thinking about Mum and her demise. Our bodies may get consigned to earth but the soul, Mum’s spirit, I like to think, is right next to me guiding and shepherding me through pivotal moments in my life as I find myself.

 

Whenever I see a flock of birds or sunlight glinting off a pane of glass, or when on my birthday a huge saffron orange (the color associated with ascetics in India) truck drives up alongside me at a traffic light with my mother’s name painted across it, “Al Meher Construction,” I know Mum is right beside me and often say out loud, “Hi Mum!”