After the funeral
back at the house,
adults gathered talking
in hushed platitudes.

While wandering the house
I looked out the window.
There she was, on the front lawn
by the blue hydrangea.

Rising from the ground
like an apparition...

GRANDMA!

She is the last person
I know
who went to heaven.

(little Peter, age 6)

I watched the fabric,
Recording the time.
And counted the memories
Stitched line by line.

I find you among the small things
And for that I am thankful
As the little things are all I have left

The warm tickle pressed upon my skin
From the heat of the sun
On a dewy spring morning

In the song of the birds
Not unlike those we used to watch
Flit across your yard

The scent of fresh cut grass
The same I smelled from you mowing
As I picked dandelion bouquets for Grandma

In the smiles of passing strangers
Because to you there is no such thing
Only friends you have yet to meet

I find you among the small things
And I will cherish them profoundly
Until we meet again