Surprise at the Cemetery

During my recent sojourn in California, I was intent on visiting Alice's gravesite. Wow, it sucked hard to write that, "Alice's gravesite." When again did that happen? And what the f`ck happened, exactly? Also, why? In some ways I'm still beside myself in shock, and yet this trip to Rose Hills didn't feel the same as past visits.

Exiting the 605 freeway, I saw a couple of flower peddlers along the road, and through the passenger window I looked carefully at their bouquets. I wanted to buy one, but they had carnations among the flora, and Alice didn't like carnations. They were too pedestrian, not special enough. She inherited this sentiment from our mom. So instead I went to the shop outside the cemetery gates, selected a diverse assortment of stems, and asked for an arrangement to be made. It turned out pretty.

I was going to commune with Alice, solitarily, and try to feel her presence. When I arrived in the general vicinity of her burial site, it took me several minutes to locate her tombstone. What relief I felt when I finally found it. In a true surprise, there were fresh flowers already in the container at the foot of her grave. I took a picture, above. I thought of a couple of people who may have been there the week of March 7, but I couldn't be sure. I was touched that someone was thinking of Alice, right alongside me.

In terms of communicating with her, vocally all I could muster was "oh, Alice." I reflected on how life has changed since September 2006, and imagined beaming these thoughts up to the heavens so she could hear me.

I thought I would cry, but I didn't. Over time I've come to know Alice as not being alive, and that thought is rather matter of fact inside me, it can't be argued. It's been there for four and a half years now.

So I sat on the grass for 20 minutes or so, and took in the blue sky, the rolling hills, and the lush grass all around. It was almost pleasant, I hadn't had this kind of warm solitude for many months. I reflected on how I had Alice to thank for this moment. Which is totally tragic, and I'm back to how f`cked up her death is in the world.

Later that weekend, I videotaped a short interview with my mom about her upbringing, for posterity. During the conversation she referenced Alice, and how nobody ever thinks of her. I asked how she knew this? She said if whoever is thinking of Alice doesn't tell my mom, then they're not thinking of her. How plainly ridiculous, I thought. People can think personal thoughts and not share them with anybody; this doesn't mean their thoughts don't exist.

And still, I knew well my mom's wish to know the comfort of other people's memories of Alice. I suggested we had to look harder to know that people still remember Alice.

The flowers at Rose Hills are a perfect example.

A picture of both bouquets side by side, as I left the grassy knoll, above left.