Friday, December 23, 2022

Man in cemetery lacks GPS

"Dis happens every yea," he said. He'd been walking in large squares in the cemetery, holding a cardboard box that contained a vivid yellow cup, a small potted flower, and (as it turned out), a bun wrapped in saran wrap. He was a local Filipino in tall black rubber boots, camouflage shorts, and a dim green shirt. "I bet she's laughing now," he said of his aunt, whose grave he was looking for. "Every yea." I laughed, suggesting he might want to talk to someone about this. Said I always got lost when I went back to visit my mother. What's the name? I asked. I heard "Pacheco," so Lilith and I started making our own geometrical shapes, as I tried to locate a grave with a capital P on it. A young man was sitting off at the corner of one of our squares beside a grave. "Here it is!" our friend called out, and we wandered over, only to find a grave marked Cacheco. (I discovered how unhelpful I really was.) "My father's over dea," he said. Another yellow cup, another small flower. Born in 1919, died in 2004 or so. He'd had an older father.

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