The weight of grief is heavy on my shoulders.  I need no special day to bring memories to mind of all you said and did.  Your face, smiling or grave, is with me always, child of my heart's desire.  I see you small and wondering, "Mom, What makes the sun go down?" Then thoughtfully, "I know, the wind blows it away."  So alive, biking, soccer, swimming, skiing, running, rollerblading, pumping iron.  You became so very strong, but always you were gentle and kind.  Your hands, light on the piano keys, brought out the sounds of harmony, like wind rustling softly in the leaves, or rain, clear and sparkling on the grass. 
   Careful listening was your way.  Such a bright future you had planned, and you labored long and patiently to realize your dream. Then rolled the drums of war, and you were called.  Your still small voice said, "No!"  But the rolling drums rolled on, and you were gone. Into hatred loosed from the gates of hell, your winged bird was sent, shot down, and fell.  Your bright future lay bloodied in the sand to rise no more.  And each day as I grow old, I miss you so.  A grave is such a solitary place for one who loved to live.