It is a cold, windy day in Druid Hills. The contradictions of springtime sound out in the wind chimes, are visible in the bending trees and flower petals scattered. New life struggles into existence as winter rises up like the dead after days as hot as summer. It is a time of intense feelings, of passion experienced and recalled. The equinox approaches.
This morning, as I have coffee and sit at my laptop near the window to the screen porch, the faces of the dead appear to me, those who departed in this past year, in 2025, and those untimely deaths all the way back to that of my grandmother Miller who died of a stroke at the age of 63 when I was 16. She is buried in the Jewish section of Bonaventure Cemetery in Savannah.
Bonaventure
Here are the people with us now only in spirit:
Darryl,
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