We are here to plant flowers, to bury our lost sorrow with the still faces of these Johnny- jump-ups. Birds cry from new-leafed sumac and in the wet air of the mountain’s shadow I can still hear the twelve gun salute, still feel it in my body. From here we move to the stones that my mother learned to tend from her mother. If you move to my house I will have to teach you my family’s way of tending the dead – nothing to do, you will have to leave your buried in Maine.