I sit outside in the yard, on my mother's bench. I am next to a two foot high, gentlemanly, green frog. A butterfly flutters around my head. Three dogs sit with me, Tanner, Woody, and Max. Max and Woody share Woody's gift from Nantucket, an "I Pawed." It fits their mouth perfectly, and seems to be the hit of the toys. Each pet here received a gift, so let's also remember Milo, the cat, and Reba, the rabbit. The hermit crab, who made it across the country, and lived for years, is now gone. He was quite the crab, crawling out of his tank, and wandering around the house. My mother's food is still in the freezer. Some of it I bought on my visit before her death. I so wanted to fatten her up, to see her eat. I felt like a broken record, "You must eat," but she was already leaving, and I knew it in some way. I cried in my bed at night. I reverence now my last hug. She was so small and tender. Her personal items are here, too, her brush, comb, moisturizer, wallet, photos. They mean so much and I am not the one who can let them go. Will they be here next time I come? We imbue our objects with love. Part of me wants to use her moisturizer, and another part feels it is too sacred. I am not sad, just noticing reverence. I think of the Catholic church, where upon entering, the fingers dip into holy water, to dab upon ourselves, "In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost." I feel I am dipped in Holy Water here. I could be bathing in the Ganges, or singing in the trees, or just honoring the temple that I am, the sacred seed and seat.