The leaves fall.
The plants die.
Just like Grandfather.
I smell the crumbling leaves,
The moist soil,
When I brush them across his face.
He's not buried TOO deeply, of course.
If a new spirit can't find him,
He might not come back.
I know how it's done.
I know.
I helped him.
Even in the end, when his faith was weak
When he doubted his rebirth.
I helped him cross.
I say good-bye to his old body.
I wait for the new Grandfather to arrive.
It can't be much longer.
I can feel it.
He'll be better than ever.