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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.

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