And my mood hasn't been one for writing. No reason, in particular.
But new modem attached and somewhat out of eye level of beast named Bleu, I am ready for an entry about another visit to the cemetery, a bit over a week ago.
I ordered a flower holder for my dad's niche. And I decided, about a week later, to go back, and see if it had been placed. I should have checked before I bought a small bunch, to assure it was attached so I could place the flowers. I didn't, trusting that, though I said there was no rush, a week was sufficiently without rush. I got there with my flowers only to see that nothing had been done.
I got one of the little vases, with the intent of placing it on the ground near the niche, since my dad's neighborhood is sparse of other occupants. Unfortunately, the vase had a rounded bottom that, even leaning against the wall, was blown over, throwing flowers and water all about. I was making a mess of the wall and the floor and only hoped that some denizen who watches what mourners do and bring (they are very strict) would not see all the water splashed on the wall and mixing with old dust on the floor.
I hoped that the splash marks would dry before anyone came by. But I tried again to fill a rounded vase to place the flowers, even if it were only for the rest of the afternoon. This time, I used a rubber band from the flowers to wrap around the vase and attach to the half inch or less protrusion that should have had the vase holder. It worked. I congratulated myself for my ingenuity, and began talking to my father, and writing in my journal. It fell off. Splash. Since my father hated me to spend money on things that had no value, and he was not that interested himself in flowers, I considered that he was throwing them at me. Then I thought, "He wouldn't do that." But then worried again. The last time we had words, his were angry ones, yes, in the midst of delirium, but I suddenly had the vision of an angry ghost, a la Ghost Whisperer expresing dissatisfaction in similar ways. On the other hand, I don't believe in ghosts, well, an angry one named Constantine, anyway.
The flowers were starting to wilt, so I decided that the time had come to place them in various other holders, that had water, of several other columbarium occupants. But during the course of all this personal sturm und drang over flower placement, I had noticed a burly young man go to a niche diagonally across from my father's, "on the crowded wall", meaning where a whole lot of other folks were interred. He came with a small bottle of some pre-made Starbuck frappacino and I was slightly irritated at his making a visit with a coffee shop drink. I suspected him of not being a serious visitor. I was wrong.
During one of my visits to the sink where they allow visitors to fill up vases, I had heard a repeated noise. Like something slapping, with the sound of a kind of clear wrapping paper. Like someone slapping a pack of cigarettes against his hand afgter dislodging the covering to free one cigarette for a smoke. The sound echoed through the marble and granite hallways. The number of times the pack slapped against the hand smacked of a sort of ritual.
When he saw me return to my side of the hallway, he stopped. I knew it had been him. I wanted to look, and did so askance, in between trying to concentrate on my own visit. Then I smelled smoke. He had lit a cigarette. Actually, it turned out he had lit two. One was wedged into the crevice of the niche the young man was visiting. In a fashion, he, and his loved one, were smoking together. What might have been a desecration was suddenly very moving, because I could hear the young man choking back tears. He was recreating something, in this imperfect reality, that had been something they shared. I could not see whether it was a father or a mother or a brother, or a sister. I wanted to ask, but I dared not intrude into this moment of mourning between heaven and earth.
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