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It’s a lovely, chilly afternoon in Rio, Wisc. I had encountered no one on my walk, but when I arrived at Opa and Oma’s grave, and cautiously eased myself to the ground, who should drive slowly by, a stone’s throw away, in his battered Ford sedan, but one of Carol’s big admirers, Bob Adams, age 89! I wanted to catch Bob’s attention and get him to come to me so I could tell him about Carol if he hasn’t heard, but I am too sore to rise with any speed, and Bob did not notice me as he examined his own grave one, two, three rows to the east.
I have Bob’s cellphone number. I tried calling, but my call went to voicemail as the Ford eased out of sight.
I’ll show you a portrait Oma made of Bob, a few years ago when he was a little more aware of his surroundings than he is now.
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I am on my back now, tapping my phone screen with stiffening fingers, looking up at honking geese and at clouds losing the last of the day’s sun. I am going to get up onto my feet and head home. But let me show you one thing more before I go. Something surprised me an hour ago, when I approached Opa and Oma’s grave. I wrote a note to several of my cousins.
“Hey, hey!” I scolded in the note.
“Why didn’t someone remind me of my Uncle Phil’s 100th and Aunt Dorie’s 99th birthdays this past Sunday?” I asked.
I told the cousins, “I am smiling as I imagine my Carol possibly meeting Aunt Dorie for the first time, and reuniting with Carol’s pal Phil, at a grand celebration somewhere out in the Great Celestial Central Time Zone!”
♦
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