'Do not stand at my grave and weep,

'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 shower of rain,

I am the field of ripening grain.

I am is the morning hush,

I am in the graceful rush.

Of beautiful birds in circling flight,

I am the star shine of the night.

I am in the flowers that bloom,

I am in a quite room.

I am in the birds that sing,

I am in each lovely thing.

Do not stand at my grave and bereft,

I am not there. I have not left.'

This is the poem by Mary Elizabeth Frye. She is said to have written poems inspired by a Jewish girl next door, Margaret Schwarzkopf, who was unable to visit her dying mother in Germany due to the advent of the Nazis. The poem is the dead comfort the living.

Victims who were deceased by Coronavirus are kept in a freezer truck for storage of their bodies while wearing hospital uniforms. Within two weeks, the deceased, whose relatives did not show up, are buried on the Hart Island in Bronx, New York City. Workers armed with white protective suits and masks bury pine coffins bearing the deceased's name side by side. Even the deceased, who have relatives, must hold a funeral without being able to say goodbye with a hug or kiss.

How to console the grief of the bereaved families? Rather, the deceased should console the bereaved family.

I couldn't go to the funeral of my mother and father, who loved me dearly. I knew about my mother's death two months later and didn't hear my father's death either.  It is only assumed that it was because they tried to catch the feud of inheritance discord. Who should I blame? I just lamented my own situation where I couldn't serve my parents close to me.

My father lived near the age of 100, so I was less sad. However, when I knew my mother's death two months later, I almost became unconscious and cried rolling on the floor. Did someone say time was medicine? I cried every time I went to the bathroom, and after 3 years, I had my first child and my sorrows died down. My mother, who couldn't say goodbye to me, seems to be hovering around me without leaving. I comforted my mother and myself by reciting a poem that 'Do not stand at my grave and weep.'

My beloved mother is not in the grave. My mom becomes the wind and strokes my head. She becomes gentle rain and wet my cheek. She becomes sunlight and warm hugs me.

I often talk to myself, touching the ring that my mother always wore "Mom, you don't have to hover around me anymore. Make yourself at home."