Historical Setting, 630 C.E. a place where only flowers may grow
The anniversary of a loss is always hard. Practice doesn’t make grief perfect. There is no perfect grief. It is always soaked in tears and etched with markings of “should haves” and “could haves.” Even with a death by cancer to a woman who understood the warning and the threat and brought us through it, we still grieve. Even when she gifted us all, who loved her, with time for our good-byes, we still grieve.
I know our children and their spouses and our grandchildren see me here at this named stone and they know I keep no secret of my grief. So, whenever I expect no one is worrying over it, I slip away to come up here on this hill where only flowers grow. I feel a closeness with Ana in the quietude of prayer. Somewhere in the Spirit, in the wide love of God the love we had together all through those years, she still lingers. I don’t even try to sort out the differences of new thoughts of her from the memories. If anyone asks, I say I am keeping memories. If no one asks it’s just good thoughts.
I brought with me the ash root harp that has been passed through our family and now just strum a song that Ana played on her clay flute. In those days we played and sang this – and there was always a place in that song that didn’t have a note hole on her flute. She always filled the hollow spot with a giggle, and I sang that note alone. Maybe I miss the giggle of the missing note most now. But playing the song again seems fine.
Now Brandell has come here with his Kithara.
“Papa, do you want to play some music together?”
“I was just remembering an old song. We used to sing it when you were so little. You probably don’t remember it.”
Brandell remembers and plays every note with none missing. There is nothing ever missing when he plays. We play it straight through, and there is no one to giggle through the empty parts.
“That’s a very old song now. And I have some new ones. This is one Gaia likes.” And he plays a beautiful song.
“I can understand why Gaia would like it.”
I know he came here to mend my grief. “Later, now Ana, I will send the old song off again, for the heavens to hear. Giggle boldly then, my love. I won’t forget.”
(Continues tomorrow)
Lazarus Ink 