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The Dearly Departed

I miss my daughter sometimes more than others, and hearing of David Bowie's death made today one of those times. This isn't one of those "poor me" essays. Death is part of life, and I don't want any sympathy. What I want is to say there are times when we'd really like to talk to someone, but that someone is dead. It's a weird feeling, like not being able to finish a task you really need to do. My daughter was a HUGE Bowie fan. I can't tell you how many times I watched Labyrinth and listened to "Let's Dance" in the '80s. Like a lot of working moms, I wasn't that tuned in, but it was nice to have things we could talk about without me cringing or her rolling her eyes. I was okay with David, Adam Ant, and George Michael, because I liked (most of) their music and understood that their oddness appealed to girls of her age. When I heard this morning that Bowie died, I wanted to call my daughter and talk about it. I can imagine what sh

I Am the Grass. Let Me Work

                                                                                                                                             One of my favorite poems by Carl Sandburg (see the full poem here http://www.poetry-archive.com/s/grass.html ) came to mind on Saturday as a group of us cleaned up the cemetery at the Grand Rapids Home for Veterans. Neat rows of white markers stretch across a wide space. Some are detailed, providing rank, unit, and field of service; some have only a name and a date of death. It makes one think about the grass. There we were, working above ground. There they were, lying below it. Between us was the grass. It will be there when we, too, are underground. It will hide what we were, how we felt. There will be only a name and a few details. So why do we get so upset about things?