When she passed,
I clipped the obituary from the local paper.
I held it for a time,
recalling sitting next to her in third grade.
How fluent in languages,
how gifted in mathematics
how she could draw tears and sighs from
the greying piano keys.
I did not want to hear a minister talk about her—
I knew her laughter;
the way her head tipped as she listened;
the warmth of her hand in mine,
walking home from school.
I wrapped the clipping in a tight tube,
wrote a prayer on a bit of birch bark
strung with wool thread.
In the soft evening rain,
I tied the little bundle to my wishing tree.
May the wind carry you home,
May the wind carry you home.