'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 a poem by Mary Elizabeth Frye. She was inspired by her Jewish neighbor, Margaret Schwarzkopf, who couldn’t visit her dying mother in Germany because of the rise of the Nazis. The poem is told from the voice of the dead, comforting the living.

During COVID-19, many victims who passed away were kept in freezer trucks, still wearing hospital gowns. If no family member claimed the body within two weeks, the deceased were buried on Hart Island in the Bronx, New York City. Workers dressed in white protective suits and masks buried them in plain pine coffins, each marked with a name. Even those with families couldn’t say goodbye with a hug or a kiss.

Funerals were held without touch, without closeness.

How can we comfort grieving families? Sometimes, it feels like the dead must comfort the living.

I couldn’t attend the funerals of my loving mother and father. I found out about my mother’s death two months later. No one told me about my father’s passing either. I can only guess they wanted to avoid conflict over inheritance by keeping it quiet.

Who can I blame? I only blame myself—for living so far away and not being near my parents in their final days.

My father lived almost to 100, so his death felt less painful. But when I learned of my mother’s death two months after, I was crushed. I cried on the floor, unable to stand. They say time heals, but I would cry in the bathroom every day. Three years later, when I had my first child, the pain slowly faded.

Still, I often feel like my mother’s spirit is nearby— as if she couldn’t leave without saying goodbye. I whispered Mary Frye’s poem to myself,

“Do not stand at my grave and weep,”

trying to comfort both myself and my mother.

My dear mother is not in her grave. She becomes the wind that touches my hair, the soft rain that kisses my cheeks, the sunlight that gently holds me.

I often touch the ring she always wore, which my father kept and gave me after she passed. And I say softly to myself,

“Mom, you don’t have to stay near me anymore. You can rest now.”