Anastasia

Anastasia: a crazy name for an Irish woman, but actually, quite common in the long-buried book of Celtic Memories. When she in a reverie came to me - her 80 year old hair flying on countless dove-gray moonbeams, I sensed a pitter-pattering of soft rain redolent of the green hills of Connemara falling into my mind. “I am not dead, and you are not dead.” She said. I should have been afraid but fear takes much more energy than I had at that moment. I heard myself ask: “Then you are alive”? The soft rain continued to speak in its gently lyrical brogue. "The living have no beginning or end," she whispered over the raindrops, "and the dead never were." I thought about this for a while as I watched her fly a slow silver sky over her shoulders. Then I, in much joy, thanked her for being forever my crazily named aunt Anastasia.