My Dad died when I was 17. I couldn't understand, in the days that followed, how my Mom had the strength to sort through his things. When my Mom died when I was 38, I did the same for her, and I came to understand what she felt. It pushes the recent pain and horror of loss a bit farther into the past, and brings the older happpy memories closer. I took that photo of her when she came to visit and stayed on the seacoast, and made friends with the cabin owner's dog. She wore that dress to a seminar I graduated from and surprised her by winning three out of five awards. When my Dad proposed, she asked that silly little nodding ceramic owl if she should accept. She saved every single letter I'd ever written to her.

These are my cairns, my feathers and sweetgrass.