My cousin Jenny and I went to the Holy Cross cemetery today. I wanted to get a look at the new tombstone Harold Vance bought. I wasn’t disappointed. It was to both his mother and sister. I wouldn’t have thought to do that despite that they’re in a double plot. Google maps took me the back way, so I decided to forgo a visit Lester’s or Paul’s to purchase flowers. If I’d come alone, I might have gone the florist route. And I didn’t think ahead to stop at Safeway or Whole Foods where you can grab a bouquet at the front of the store.
“Flowers are silly anyway,” Jenny said.
“Maybe this whole thing is silly.”
I was doubting myself. The ritual felt awkward. I wasn’t sure what compelled to come view her headstone because it went against everything I was taught as a child. Yet I could not help myself. My upbringing be damned.
“No, it’s paying your respects.”
“Why is it silly to bring flowers?”
“Because the deceased don’t know the difference.”
“They don’t know if you visit either.”
So I went empty-handed. That was made all the more apparent after seeing there was a receptacle for flowers built into the marker. Two, actually. One for Patty and one for her mother. I thought to steal a couple of flowers from someone else’s tombstone, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I cleaned the circular hole on Patty’s side that had a piece of crumpled plastic and two red petals made from cloth. I took that to mean that someone had taken the time to leave a nosegay of what looked to be roses, even if they weren’t real. I pulled the tall shock of grass growing in Mary’s receptacle. The day was overcast and windy, but relatively busy. There were 5 cars alone parked in the Holy Family section where we were. We drove by Joe DiMaggio’s grave, and Jenny saw it as it whizzed by. But when I asked if we should go back, she said it was too windy. I was in a hurry to leave I guess. There was a family visiting a few feet from us and laughter arose from their group.
“A happy visit to the cemetery,” Jenny said.
“I’d prefer it that way. It’s sort of like not wanting people to be sad at your funeral.” Yet I wasn’t laughing. Instead I felt blank. Like I was sleepwalking. Of course, I was relieved that Patty finally got her headstone. Yet it gave me only a fleeting sense of satisfaction. Part of me imagined having a conversation with her. I wanted to tell her that there’s a bad ass Irishman on the case, and he wanted to see her case through. But Detective Daniel Cunningham perhaps meant he would do his best to see the case through. Stress on the word “want.” As always, I want all roads to lead to justice. Alas, there has been no movement on the case.
Happy belated birthday my friend!
