one anniversary and a funeral

May Day May Day. It is our third anniversary. We had dinner at Montage, that Cajun place under the Morrison bridge. Yum. They wrap leftovers in sculpted tin foil to go home. Somebody decided that we should have dessert because it was our anniversary, so they sent us home with this fat piece of chocolate cake, which we just finished and I have vanilla sauce on my fingers and I can still type.

Today I went to Alice's funeral. I don't usually go, but Alice didn't have many people to show up for her and she was wearing red, and I thought that since we'd danced together it was the least I could do.

I'm never really sure what to do, Amy Vanderbilt-wise, for a funeral. Do you still wear black, for instance, or is it okay to dispense with tradition. Now, I always wear black, so for me, its no trouble. I have the good black clothes and the great black clothes. Today I wore one of each. But, do you bring flowers or send them ahead? I really only know biker funerals, you know, the kind where you throw precious things in the hole: gold rings, good weed, bad whiskey, stolen roses and eventually somebody usually takes a piss for old time's sake.

It wasn't like that.

It was in a mausoleum [shudder] and it was a little creepy, nine or twelve lawn chairs stuffed between slabs of pink marble with the names of dead people on them stacked ten high, a ceiling probably twenty feet tall. Her urn wrapped in red velvet up front and afterwards people were invited to touch the velvet. I didn't. The minister was her stepson and the few people who were there I had never seen. He mostly told the story of his father instead of Alice, but that is probably because it is the only story he knows and people seem to think their perspective is interesting.

I know I do.

The only thing I learned is that Alice liked to mow the lawn.

I don't understand the reason for mausoleums. They had not run out of room out in the dirt, so it wasn't like that. I think its that they want permanence. I think that would have probably gone without saying but for my saying it. Maybe notoriety. Maybe status.

Dead is dead. The place was thick with the smell of roses, or rose spray, more likely, because the identical little vases on each crypt were full of silk and plastic flowers. Again, that permanence thing. Weight my ankles with chains, throw me off the side of a boat and feed the fish. Heaven knows I've spent my share of time leaning over the bulwarks. A wonder I never fell in.

My husband sent me a text message that said, "I'm not a smart man but I know whut love is." I am happy to be married. Permanence... ah.