Memorial

I had the pool to myself, that is, without anyone with me. A party of one, my last day before I go back to prison so to speak.

I chose a lounge by the adult pool where there is less noise away from the kiddies. I lathered myself up with SPF and plop myself on the lounge to read. There is a woman sitting on the other side of the table who I've seen before but I can't recall how I know her or how she knows me.

We fall into conversation and it turns out she knows my wife, of course, and knew my sister very well. She asks how my parents and the rest of the family are faring since her death.

My sister was cremated and the funeral was a memorial service. "Your sister was cremated?" I had assumed she knew. I told her that my sister's death didn't seem finalized or real to me without the more traditional funeral with a casket surrounded by flower arrangements.

During my sister's eulogy a lone tear crept out the corner of my eye. My granddaugher looked up at my face and reached over and held my hand.

My sister, in her youth, danced in the ballet and I went with mother to take and pick her up from ballet practice and the recital productions. My brother and I would always sit in the front row to watch them dance, and make faces at our sister.

Last night I was watching PBS and there was a kind of documentary on choreographers and a Paris Ballet Company. It made me a little sad watching while thinking of my sister.