8:72) Hope O'Keeffe 19-JAN-98 21:59

A stranger dies, known and cared for only through these wires; his friend writes that ""All good things come by grace and grace comes by art and art does not come easy" -- Norman Maclean." At my goddaughter's birthday party, an announcement: in August, she will be a sister. I have read earlier of my friend's friend's death; perhaps that is why I feel darkness instead of joy, or perhaps it is because I have just watched her father spank her for jumping on the couch out of sheer birthday exuberance: "It's the only way she'll learn." At bedtime my son snuggles in, talks about death, wonders if the sand will fall into his mouth when he is buried, thinks that might not feel good. He says "I'm not sad about death any more. It's just a part of life. I know I hold her in my heart, but I still miss Grandma Gladys." He asks if they took good care of her, if anyone kissed her goodnight. I say that someone was there to hold her hand and tell her it was time to let go, and remind him that he is special, that we were the last to see her, and help sing her home. We sing "I'll love you forever," and he drifts to sleep, that heavy wheeze making it that much harder for me to stop holding him tonight, to stop my shivers.