Her thumb lightly traced over his hand. "There's a poem that a lady, in my Dad's congregation, read.. It's stuck with me, like she read it yesterday. It goes: Do not stand at my grave and weep I am not there; I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow, I am the diamond glints on snow, I am the sun on ripened grain, I am the gentle autumn rain. When you awaken in the morning's hush I am the swift uplifting rush of quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry, I am not there; I did not die."
Once she finished, she used her free hand to wipe away a stray tear. Hoping he understood what she was trying to say.