25 years ago to this day my father passed away. I lived and worked in Athens in Greece at the time and had visited him in Germany five months earlier. I had spent a week at his bedside and while we were never very close and found few words even on that occasion, I like to think that my visit had meant something to him. Far too soon, on the 31st of January 1984, he passed away and I flew back one last time to Braunschweig to attend his funeral.
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 sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn's 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.
Rest in peace, Vati! Your picture is on my mantelpiece and I look at it often and wonder why we had so little to say to each other when in fact we were so much alike.
