Sometimes I forget that people are gone.
Sometimes I think that I can go back and all the places and things will be the same.
I can go back to the street that I grew up on and see Grandma Monson. She can welcome me and we'll talk on her front porch.
I can visit Aunt Pat in Yuma or Grandpa Lindsay in San Luis Obispo at his retirement home.
These people aren't there anymore, and I feel a sense of loss that I can't easily go back there again.
But I know they continue on, and when I get to where they are, we'll sit on the front porch and tell stories and reconnect as if we hadn't been separated by death.