Lee Davis, cousin in Raleigh, North Carolina, Martha Taylor Gibson, Ann’s mother, and Mary Clare Powell, dearest friend from Greenfield, are gone, but we have initiated several rituals for grieving and celebrating them. Each morning, we read aloud a Mary Clare poem and a few pages from Martha’s travel logs of her overseas trips. Using the medium of clay, Annie is building pieces for our garden in memory of each of them — a heron for Mary Clare, a gecko for Lee, and an abstract sculpture for Martha. We expect tears will flow when we sing the Libera me, the final section of this magnificent choral lament. In these ways, and others, we are giving death the attention we feel it deserves, and that attention is helping us adjust to life without the grounding trio of Lee, Martha, and Mary Clare.