Margaret Jean

Six years ago today my grandmother died in the northeast corner of her farmhouse up the road from where I live. I was in the room with her, as were many of her beloveds. We sang her songs, opened the windows to let in the lilac-scented air and watched as she taught us all how to let go with irreproachable grace and ease. This morning Avah and I picked some of Margaret's favorite flowers and walked a few hundred feet through the woods to the oak grove where her ashes are buried. Bleeding hearts, Johnny jump ups, anemones, ferns. As Avah said, “Now if she gets tired of being down there, she can just pop up and see her favorite flowers and feel our love, too!” Yes, my Avahbelle. Exactly. Exactly and so true.