I’ll drink to that.” He would often say. And he did for years.
At the funeral, it was clear that his life had seen a reversal. The funeral was an open mic for all those he had helped overcome alcoholism. Needless to say, it was a long service.
After this open mic funeral, we all made a procession or parade to the Italian Catholic cemetery. I was carrying all the roses that would become our prayers thrown down into the crypt where the family had put his ashes alongside his parents, a cousin and a beloved pet dog.
I got there late with the roses, as I got lost, being neither Italian or catholic, I didn’t know where the old cemetery was. Turns out it is in a town filled with cemeteries. And it was hard to distinguish one plot of bodies from another. I stopped at the 7-11 and had to ask.
“Where is the Italian cemetery? It would be at the top of the hill. The Italians are like that. They like the best view, and have the biggest tombstones. They did well in the Bay Area, back in the day….” He continued, but I was late. Gratze I responded, and bolted my little mini up the hill towards the top, carrying all those potential prayers anxiously.
Turns out they had just started praying and crying when I got there. Men in old black suits and fedora hats; women in hippie garb and long fluid dresses in Bay breezes. And there was weeping as we pulled off the lid and remembered having buried our little cousin just last month.
And there was thanks for the parents just beside his fresh ashes.
And the red roses and prayers were not too late after all. As both fell in all directions, over his ashes, I’m sure.