In a few hours, we'll be leaving for Annapolis for my sister-in-law's funeral. It's going to be a long afternoon but I hope I can be of some comfort and support, if to no one else, my husband, whose birthday it is today. In lieu of a post, I thought I'd reprint a few more Emily Dickinson poems on death. Although I like these, the one that I published last week is my favorite.
I read something very interesting about Miss Dickinson a short while ago. There is some speculation she may have been autistic. She never left her house, or "the homestead" as she called it, after the age of 26.
I can totally relate.