The t-shirt you made me when I was six read:
“Grandma says… I’m something else.”
And so you did, frequently.
Now you, too, are “something else,”
and we visit you in the welcoming hilltop,
in the light movements of the bluebird,
in the support of the watchful oaks,
in the hawks that catch stillness on the wind,
in the sky that holds them, and holds us,
in each other, our songs, our tears and our laughter.
Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust,
but spirit springs to something else.