Sometimes, Questions Are More Hurtful Than Insults.

This Is A Story About A Family And, As There Is A Ghost Involved, You Might Cal It A Ghost Story. But Every Family Is A Ghost Story. The Dead Sit At Out Tables Long After They Have Gone.

We Cannot Stop What Heaven Chooses.

I Believe That You Live On Inside The Hearts And Minds Of Everyone You've Touched While You Were Here On Earth.

You'll Come To My Grave? To Tell Me Your Problems?" My Problems? "yes.' And You'll Give Me Answers? "i'll Give You What I Can. Don't I Always?" I Picture His Grave, On The Hill, Overlooking The Pond, Some Little Nine Foot Piece Of Earth Where They Will Place Him, Cover Him With Dirt, Put A Stone On Top. Maybe In A Few Weeks? Maybe In A Few Days? I See Myself Sitting There Alone, Arms Across My Knees, Staring Into Space. It Won't Be The Same, I Say, Not Being Able To Hear You Talk. "ah, Talk . . . " He Closes His Eyes And Smiles. "tell You What. After I'm Dead, You Talk. And I'll Listen.

You Can Find Something Truly Important In An Ordinary Minute.