Today I opened the large trash bags
from the County Sheriff Dept.
that held your belongings from the day you died,
and touched the parachute straps that held your body,
stained by Georgia red dirt and dust,
and, I think, your own blood.
It’s hard to tell because it’s been 10 months,
so red turns to brown and tan,
mixes with the dirt ground into the strap,
but the stains are there,
from where you landed, after your freefall
onto the “teeny tiny drop zone” at Skydive Atlanta.
Gently, I touched them, and felt close to you,
your heart beating under those straps,
your joy at flying at 12,000 feet,
joining other divers, doing flips,
your happiness when in the clouds,
seeing the curve of the Earth,
and I cussed out the little white parachute reserve
so small it looked like a wedding veil,
that didn’t bother to open for you,
that decided to fail you that day,
and I pulled out your bright blue, perfect helmet,
it wasn’t cracked, didn’t have a flaw,
and I held it to myself, and cried,
Pictures of your dogs went with you
their faces on the side,
a nine-pointed star decorated it,
and a sign that said, ‘TRYING MY BEST!”
I am a person who wants to know it all,
wants to see and touch your things,
kneel at your gravesite,
call out prayers!
feel it all deeply inside, within,
in order to then …………let go,
Fly, fly, my daughter dear!
Fly through the worlds of God,
Walk and talk with ‘Abdu’l-Baha,
fly through the universe, with ALL our love,
We will do things in your name,
Hold memories to our hearts,
Paint because you wanted me to,
Do things for you, for you, for you.
💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙
cfblack, 4-25-26
Doctor Grandma 
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