I read a beautiful poem this morning by Ronald Wallace, entitled Gone.  This month marks 7 years since the passing of my father on a Saturday morn.  I remember I was sitting on the floor of a warm, crowded gymnasium watching my daughter have fun in her weekly romps through the series of gymnastic stations.  It was before her days of hockey sticks, skates and questionable coaches.  As it has been it’s like it happened yesterday; this poem sums up what it feels like after the funeral has long passed but the ache has not.  LA Carlson