change

On television, my other, better reality, everybody is talking to dead people. Patricia Arquette can't get a decent night's sleep what for all the dudes and damsels in distress banging around her dreams on Medium. Then she has to figure out how to prevent/solve/explain how she knew about the mayhem in the first place. How the woman gets to sleep at all is the biggest mystery. You'd have to knock me out with a mallet.

Meanwhile, over on Ghost Whisperer, spirits are constantly dropping in on poor Jennifer Love Hewitt, causing her false eyelashes to flutter and bosom to heave as she smiles beatifically and sends them on into the light. Or the tunnel. Or Better Place; wherever the hell it is they're meant to go.

And on my absolute drop-dead favorite 'I see dead people' show, Six Feet Under, the Fisher Family gets to hang with the dearly departed at their clients' very own funerals (cool!) and are occasionally comforted in their you-can-imagine-quite considerable angst by their deceased father, who smokes and jokes and is even able to give them the occasional hug. Now really, is that too much to ask?

One of the wonders of New York are the glories of it's mass transit system, and I will hear nothing to the contrary. On my last day in Manhattan I took the subway to Grand Central and picked up the 1:15 on the LIRR out to Pinelawn Station, which is located right next to the memorial park where my parents are buried.

It was off-peak hours, and I had the car nearly to myself for the hours' ride out to the station. I hiked across the windswept grounds in bitter cold, but the sun was brilliant in a clear, cobalt sky. Pinelawn Memorial Park is a lovely and well-maintained place, peaceful in it's way, and serene. I had an hour to stay, but if I missed the next and last train back to the city, I'd find myself stranded overnight. It wouldn't have been the first time.

After Dad died, Mom and I came to visit here whenever I was in town. I know it brought her comfort. The last time we came together we arrived quite late, after 4:00 pm, because she was always fussing around so much that attempts to get her out of the house before 3:00 were futile. It was cold then too, and dark, and we didn't attempt to leave the grounds until after 5:00. When I drove up to the gates and realized they were locked I did what any sensible person would do. I started shouting.

"Oh my god, Mom! We're locked in the cemetery!"

At first startled, Mom started giggling. "Oh, my!" she exclaimed. And she laughed again. In fact, she was practically rolling.

"Mom, it's not funny! We're going to wind up spending the night in a car in a cemetery! Oh, my god, what am I going to do?" I wailed, driving around frantically until finally finding a caretaker to unlock the gates. Late and lost; me panicking, Mom giggling; this is the story of our lives.

This is the story I wanted to go on. I wanted to laugh with her about it all over again; tell Dad and feel him smile. I stood there over the bronze plaque with her name newly embossed in gold next to his: Ruth 1913-2006. It is brutal in it's finality. I don't know how I could have thought this would make me feel better.

I have not been dealing particularly well with my mother's death, and I thought that a visit to the cemetery would help. There, I thought, I would meditate and find peace. I was going to write that I didn't know what I was looking for, but that's not true. I know what I was looking for; it's just that it isn't quite sane.

I was looking for her. I was looking for a reprieve. I was looking for another chance. I wanted the last year of her life back so I could make it better. I wanted a chat, like Nate and Dave Fisher get on TV. I wanted a do-over.

Of course, what I found was not what I wanted. She is not with me as I sit on the stone bench overlooking her grave, gazing at the white birch that was planted because, she said, it was my father's favorite. She isn't there. He isn't there. They aren't anywhere. The story of their lives has ended; the story of our lives together. And that is what I can't seem to wrap my heart around.

What I know is what I've always known. All life is change. To accept love is to accept loss; to accept loss is to accept pain. To know the one is to embrace the other, and I've spent my life trying to avoid the unavoidable. I need to stop yearning for things that cannot be. I need to accept. I miss them. But I have to understand. This is the end of our story.