My close friend Linda died Sunday on Mother’s Day.

The funeral was yesterday, Tuesday.

My grief has taken the form of bewilderment and confusion.

Some fear, too.

Bewilderment because I want to talk about her funeral—with her.

And I can’t believe I can’t.

We’d have so much to catch up on—so many details—an epic recap.

For example: I knew she was smart, but I didn’t know

she was valedictorian of her high school class!

As for fear…

It was quite a distance from my parked car to the burial site.

The grass was high and the wind whipped my hair across my face.

It was difficult to avoid stepping on gravestones.

If that indiscretion means bad luck, I’m doomed.

I stepped on at least three gravestones—maybe five—probably eight.

If I told Linda, she’d say, “Don’t worry about that.”

That’s what I mean about details.

And then, I want to tell her how the high winds

shook the supports of our mourner’s tent.

And there was a flapping of canvas, and creaking and clanging

as the structure strained to stay erect.

And I want to tell her that Nature made a resounding racket in her honor.

And Linda would say, “I don’t need any fuss.”

And I would reply, “I know.

But the high winds thought otherwise.”