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Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there; I do not sleep.

At my mother’s burial eight years ago in Florida, the verdant patches between the neatly rowed white marble tombstones reminded me of him with his green, crumpled handkerchief.

I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,

I eyed him wondering if it were true.

“Where do you get the bodies?”

He didn’t answer me. He only took out his green handkerchief and wiped his forehead with a couple of sighs.

I wondered why he agreed to talk to me if he didn’t plan on talking to me.

I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.

“What do you do with the bodies?”

Sigh.

“I would boil them down, so the students could use the bones for research,” he blurted.

When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush

“And, what did you do with all of those bones?”

He touches his head with his handkerchief and looks at me as if weighing something in my face.

“I threw them all down a well at the school.”

Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft starlight at night.

“But they were people…What about their families?”

Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.

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