Lilith in the rain

Lilith and I sought cover from the rain at the administrative building of Valley of the Temples cemetery. At the front desk was the woman whose son's name I had placed on a memory tree at the walk against suicide a few months ago, the woman whose knees need replacing but who has no time or money for such an operation. She'd had Christmas Eve with her children (now in their 50s) and myriad grandchildren. The next day they'd gone to her ex-husband's place; they sent her prime rib! Nice to have children in their 50s, she said. An employee who greeted Lilith told the woman that the service today would involve three urns. I asked if the family had all died at the same time. No, people save their ashes, she said, until they can inter all of them. She tried to find the urn of her deceased husband, an Italian from NY, on her phone; she said the urn was beautiful, and her ashes would go in there, too. He was Italian from New York who loved local culture. Is that why he moved here, I asked. "He moved here for me," she said. 

 

The rain had stopped. Lilith and I headed out. "Thank you for talking to me," she said. She's not the first person who has thanked me for listening.