Delivered flowers first to our 'adopted granma', Mrs. Gibault next door. Sweet little old lady. Then took flowers to Abuelita's grave with Mom and Emma. Mom was teary-eyed, Emma does not quite understand the whole concept of 'death is supposed to be sad' and I just sort of looked around, raising an eyebrow as my mother forgot that I rarely, if ever, cry.
I love cemeteries.
No, I was not bludgeoned with the Goth Stick. Put down the pitchforks and torches. I just happen to love cemeteries. Think about it. I don't fear death in the least, it's quiet, peaceful, and the people there are fantastic listeners. All right that was horrible. But they're open to interpretation. You can see whose families remember them and miss them, who perhaps has no family to visit their grave, or whose relatives cannot bear the pain of coming back to see them. I saw small children and single parents visiting the grave of - most likely - the missing parent. I saw little old men putting roses on the graves of their wives. I saw teenagers awkwardly returning to a grave, sometimes with an adult, sometimes by themselves, and place flowers on it, unsure of what to do. I saw tiny trinkets left on the grave, little angels and dolls. Necklaces strung by the hands of children with gaudy, brightly colored plastic beads mingled with ones that spelled out "we love you" and "daddy". Pictures of the families, or perhaps of the one buried. There was one section of the cemetery marked 'Baby Land', which is a deeply disturbing name for some reason. There were a few couples there, and I saw some families gathered around tiny graves. For the first time in many months I began making up stories about people I did not see, who I would never see. Imagining thoughts and motives for the ones I did. It was refreshing. I think I shall be going back often; I like talking to dead people but was unable to do so on a holiday when everyone remembered to come back to see those left in the ground. That and I think my mother would have me institutionalized if I began talking to the markers. But given my habit to prefer conversing with inanimate objects to people, it stands to reason that talking to the dead would be the perfect thing for me. And I'm sure they don't mind; I bet they're sick of hearing from no one but their families anyway.
Then I came home and laughed heartily as the cat made the weirdest sounds I've ever heard from him at a bunch of chattering squirrels. He knows they are mocking him and all he can do is make noise back at them because he lacks front claws (he fought my mother's upholstery, the damned couches won. Much to my dismay. I'd rather get scratched up every now and then than have to see him unable to just be a cat).