The sky always seems such an implausible blue on what my father always used to call 'bad days'. "Such a sad place", confirms our woolly-hatted Asian cabbie as we pull up inside the crem. "We all end up here", he chirpily surmises before we settle up, and all three of us laugh that nervous, relieved-still-to-be-here, tension-breaking laughter that's never far away at funerals.
I watch the white water effusions of the fountains. So much effort, so much power, such extraordinary will briefly to defy gravity; such temerity of the water to wobble precariously in mid-air like that, a stream of "look-at-me" ebullience, dazzling, bright and vicarious, before gravity, that relentless, indifferent, and overwhelming killjoy, pulls the joyous fluid towers back down to earth.
But still the water bubbles up, undaunted, exuberant, a feverish explosion; a brilliant blurt of white Pollock splatter; tricky liquid porcelain.
We have a running joke about going to see the doctor. You're fine when you go in, but invariably come out having something wrong with you. Similarly, funerals seem to possess their own crazed inflationary mechanism. We went to mourn one loss, but came back minus three.
For Eloisa, Rick & Simeon.
L.U.V. on y'all,
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