This collage is of my Father at eighteen years old when he was a member of the U.S. Army in the Philippines, the second when he was sixty-eight years old, a span of half a century. The day before my Father passed, which was November 12th, 1996, he spent the majority of the time talking and reminiscing about my Mother. She had been taken from the family twenty-four years previous, and he had never remarried. He had not been ill, but he was tired. Tired of being separated from the woman he loved, tired of not being able to do the things he most loved, such as mining exploration and spending time in the desert. He watched some television with my brother that night. After stepping outside to smoke a cigarette, he brushed his teeth and told everyone goodnight. The next morning, he was not up early, as was his habit. My brother went into Dad's room, and there he was, fully clothed, lying on his bed with a piece of paper in his hands. Dad had passed shortly after midnight, according to the coroner. On the paper he held in his hands was a copy of a poem he had discovered in the local newspaper several days before. It was the same poem that his English teacher, Mrs. Giddings, had given him a copy of six years after his own Father's passing. He had carried that piece of paper in his wallet until it literally disintegrated with age. He wrote on the new copy of the poem that he thought it was serendipity to have discovered this same poem so many years later, and was so delighted to have done so. He was, in fact, prepared to pass, and this was his way of letting us know. The poem, which follows, has been attributed to Mary Elizabeth Frye, (1905-2004) who is said to have written it in 1932. “Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there, I do not sleep. I am in a thousand winds that blow, I am the softly falling snow. I am the gentle showers of rain, I am the fields of ripening grain. I am in the morning hush, I am in the graceful rush Of beautiful birds in circling flight, I am the starshine of the night. I am in the flowers that bloom, I am in a quiet room. I am in the birds that sing, I am in each lovely thing. Do not stand at my grave and cry, I am not there. I do not die.” Mary Elizabeth Frye - (1905-2004) Submitted by: Susan Isabella Sheehan-Repasky November 12th, 2007 I love you Daddy. Roam in peace.