I keep thinking I should miss you, Margaret.

Sitting here today in this meeting house, last week in your own home where Shakespeare and Bach and Jesus Christ Superstar danced together, embraced in the brazen bosom of your beloved broccoli forest.

But you’re still here, aren’t you?  Our silent worship on the porch on the day you transitioned, silent except for the wind surging and the agoutis scurrying and bellbirds perching and the butterflies dancing.  Was that perhaps you, that one boldly bright yellow flutterer who came down so near to those of us gathered in your name, then soared up up and away, laughing at and with the pure folly of life and death and new life journeys?

It was then and is now impossible to feel this place without you.  The music you inspired, the gardens you adored, the fire engine red lipstick on many a red wine glass, and always enough plates and chairs for everyone.  Pure and irreverent as a stolen kiss at a church picnic.

Of all the words that could touch but not contain you - flamboyant, brave, enchanting, wild - of all the words in that incredible Book of Words That Should Be that you kept - the one you left me with is, simply, 

DELIGHT.  

How your eyes sparkled with delight at each note, each friend old and new, each taste and texture, each bird and bee on each leaf and flower bud.  I don’t feel you out there in the soft sunset or the quiet hopeful dawn; I feel you in here when I remember to Light Up and laugh and exclaim with your own final words to the world, “Oh the fun we had!”