At the cemetery, anything counts as news.
My dad reported he visited my mom’s grave today. He told her I wrote about my own mind. He didn’t go into more detail about their correspondence. He told me he almost boarded a plane just to give me a hug.
Then he told me the gravesite next door has an elaborate display of flowers that is crowding my mother’s plot and his plot next to her’s. Just kind of cascading over, like ‘bleehhhhhhh look at me and my elaborate blooms” without a thought.
“Obviously those dead people next to mom and their mourners have no cemetery etiquette. Tacky,” I concluded.
I told him I worry she is slipping away from us.
“Did she ever mention anything about growing up?” I asked.
“No, other than her dad was weird and her mom just kind of sat there.”
“OK, Dad, you’re going to have to do better than that.”
He promised he would.