The first person who meant a lot to me to die was my maternal grandmother. I was named after her. I was her baby. Her death was painful. It was more than the loss of my first mother, it was the loss of my childhood, my most innocent time when I had someone with my best interests looking over me, protecting me, loving me. The weekend of her funeral, it rained. I remember my paternal grandmother, who was her friend, telling me that it was raining because the angels were crying. I never forgot that. I was nineteen years old, in the Navy, fully grown, yet I held on to that simple, beautiful reason why the skies poured down in perfect reflection of my own tears. Oddly, every person that meant a lot to me that has passed on were all buried on rainy days, so I find myself believing even more though rationally I know it is merely a wives tale. It soothes my pain and gives hope to my heart.
It's raining tonight in Boston; the night of the wake for Edward Moore Kennedy. The angels are crying. I am crying too.
Rest in Peace & My God and His Son Welcome you in the Eternal Kingdom.