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The Green Green Grass, part 2 - the pre-assessment

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I pushed the hangup icon on the phone and said to my husband, "They call it a 'pre-assessment.'" He asked if we were going to be fitted for coffins. "They'll  at least take our measurements,"    I assured him. The day of the appointment, it rained all day. We wrapped ourselves up and got into the car to drive to the cemetery. There was  a tulip exhibition in the cemetery chapel, so we took some time to walk through the pretty arrangements, each with a discreet card indicating the florist, for future reference. We were enjoying a flower-arranging demonstration when I looked at my watch. Time to go. Thud, my heart dropped. No. Never mind. Not going. But we went. The woman whose job it was to talk to us about our deaths was a robust, professional young woman.  I could imagine her going out to happy hour after work , laughing with her girlfriends. She used the word "neat" a lot. I told her I liked to walk in the cemetery, and thought b

The Green Green Grass

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   I  took one of my cemetery walks the other day, and for the first time, I felt sad. Not just the usual melancholy, which I often feel on my strolls among the dead. That feels ok; it's a melancholy that's mixed with gratitude and mystery.  No, this was glistening eyes aching chest sad.   It was a sunny morning; the tombstones had hard edges, and threw crisp shadows onto the grass. Young men in bright yellow vests rode their stand-up mowers with abandon through the rows of markers. Contemplating the green expanse, cut through by paths and roads, I felt the beat of my heart and the pulses of my muscles and the songs of the birds. Way at the top of the hill, at the far boundary of the cemetery, I could see two parked cars, and the canopy put up to shade the arriving mourners. I couldn't see the sharp dark rectangle I knew was up there waiting for the guest of honor.    I followed a path past the big iron BPOE elk, thinking of the ways that people used to belong to

Drifting Back

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 R evisiting your hometown after decades of absence is a bit like meeting up with a long lost lover. The details that once delighted you bring a new joy on rediscovery: bliss recaptured! Then you begin to notice the changes, and wonder what you missed in the intervening years. Wistfulness bubbles up; curiosity, wondering, what if?  I recently spent an afternoon walking through my old hometown of Fillmore, from the hills in the east to the western flatland. Even as I approached the town, my heart beat faster. A bright sun shone down on the surrounding mountains, shadowed by blue ridges, skirted by rows of orange trees. Clouds of pepper trees dot the landscape, and the sight of them arouses a longing I can't quite place. A banner greets me as my bus turns on to Central Avenue: "Flower Show, April 14th." Memories, flooding in on a surge of emotion. A sunny morning, little girls gathering up dirt, small branches, flowers, marbles, figurines, and a tiny mirror to create