February 2nd is the anniversary of Frank Sigurdson's death. In some ways, it is difficult to believe that it has been a whole year since his passing. But it also seems like it has been a long time -- far too long already -- that we have been without him.
For those of us who knew him and loved him, his death was of course very hard to take. It is very hard still. Yet his memory warms us, and thinking of our good times with him brings joy.
While it is an old standard, the following poem seems appropriate at this time:
For those of us who knew him and loved him, his death was of course very hard to take. It is very hard still. Yet his memory warms us, and thinking of our good times with him brings joy.
While it is an old standard, the following poem seems appropriate at this time:
Death is Nothing At All
Death is nothing at all.
I have only slipped away to the next room.
I am I and you are you.
Whatever we were to each other,
That, we still are.
Call me by my old familiar name.
Speak to me in the easy way
which you always used.
Put no difference into your tone.
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.
Laugh as we always laughed
at the little jokes we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me. Pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household word
that it always was.
Let it be spoken without effect.
Without the trace of a shadow on it.
Life means all that it ever meant.
It is the same that it ever was.
There is absolute unbroken continuity.
Why should I be out of mind
because I am out of sight?
I am but waiting for you.
For an interval.
Somewhere. Very near.
Just around the corner.
All is well.
Death Poem by Henry Scott Holland ~ 1847-1918
Canon of St. Paul's Cathedral ~ London. UK
