She stands out in the line-up of gray business travelers at terminal 2 like an exotic bloom on a utility pole. Long frock in pinks, oranges, yellows, crystal based jewelry. Clearly a west coast to west coast flight. No luggage but a carpetbag, which she is now waving urgently in my direction. She is visibly distressed.
“When can we be there?” She asks, hoping in, as a way of an opener.
I stare at the GPS … showing a mysterious location above Colma hills and … into the woods.
“Not any time soon” I point to the 40 minute estimate.
She groans. “I have to make a phonecall”
In the course of the phone call there are mentions of: ceremony, moon cycle, mother, mercury something, and finally “yes I have the ashes”. That being the final clue of what kind of ceremony we are talking about. Then she pleads into the phone that she will be there in 20 some minutes, so, please wait. As usual in the case of poor expectation management, I vigorously shake my head and point to the GPS time estimate, and, as usual, passenger shakes her head as in “20 or 40, same difference.”
“So”, I say, conversationally, after she hangs up. “you are late for your mother’s funeral?”
“It’s not a funeral really— more like a ceremony, just me and the Diviner. She would have understood. She would have been late for my birth, if that were an option”
“I sense a complicated relationship”
“We once didn’t speak for 10 years”
“But you made up in the end?”
“Pretty much”, hugging the mother, apparently present in one form or another, in the carpet bag. “Though the issue of inheritance has not been quite finalized.” She gives the carpet bag a reproachful squeeze.
We take a side road into the hills lined with black oaks and cypresses on a carpet of drought-golden grass, all aglow in late afternoon coastal light—like driving through a jar of maple syrup. As far as final resting places go, one could do worse. I relax into the pace of the curvy road, welcome change from the usual assault driving downtown.
We reach the top of one of the many hills, where a man in a somber gray stands alone, his face showing the strain of struggle between his busy ritual schedule and the need to be one with time. As she exists the car, I wish her and her mother the best of luck: we all are the Universe expressing itself as passengers.
“When can we be there?” She asks, hoping in, as a way of an opener.
I stare at the GPS … showing a mysterious location above Colma hills and … into the woods.
“Not any time soon” I point to the 40 minute estimate.
She groans. “I have to make a phonecall”
In the course of the phone call there are mentions of: ceremony, moon cycle, mother, mercury something, and finally “yes I have the ashes”. That being the final clue of what kind of ceremony we are talking about. Then she pleads into the phone that she will be there in 20 some minutes, so, please wait. As usual in the case of poor expectation management, I vigorously shake my head and point to the GPS time estimate, and, as usual, passenger shakes her head as in “20 or 40, same difference.”
“So”, I say, conversationally, after she hangs up. “you are late for your mother’s funeral?”
“It’s not a funeral really— more like a ceremony, just me and the Diviner. She would have understood. She would have been late for my birth, if that were an option”
“I sense a complicated relationship”
“We once didn’t speak for 10 years”
“But you made up in the end?”
“Pretty much”, hugging the mother, apparently present in one form or another, in the carpet bag. “Though the issue of inheritance has not been quite finalized.” She gives the carpet bag a reproachful squeeze.
We take a side road into the hills lined with black oaks and cypresses on a carpet of drought-golden grass, all aglow in late afternoon coastal light—like driving through a jar of maple syrup. As far as final resting places go, one could do worse. I relax into the pace of the curvy road, welcome change from the usual assault driving downtown.
We reach the top of one of the many hills, where a man in a somber gray stands alone, his face showing the strain of struggle between his busy ritual schedule and the need to be one with time. As she exists the car, I wish her and her mother the best of luck: we all are the Universe expressing itself as passengers.