Grave

My aunt and uncle's grave is walking distance from the hotel. 

The large sign at the side gate says NO JOGGING.  Descending past fields of stones into the main complex, I join the river of tourists.  At the visitor's center, the computer monitor (the interface glows somber in faux marble) asks for the last name.  A map prints smoothly.  The lady at the information booth asks twice if it is okay to write on my map, before tracing a bright hi-lighter line from Here to There. Even so, I wander confused in several parking lots before finding the path.

My uncle's stone bears the only Unitarian Universalist symbol in a sea of crosses, barring his neighbor two down on the left (deceased 11 days prior) who has a Star of David.  My aunt, named on my uncle's reverse, is called "Louisa B, His Wife."

Rush hour susurrates over the wall.  The obelisk across the river, outlined by a westering sun, is visible from the grave.  Squirrels cavort on stones and birds freewheel above.  Over the next hill rises an unfamiliar monument: three arching pinnacles, contrails in stone. 

I call my father on my Blackberry to say that I am sitting on his sister's grave and that it is peaceful and beautiful.  He talks for a long time about a family matter.  We rehash ground that we have gone over before.  He predicts a grim future.  I say I believe in a bright tomorrow.

The sun twinkles, slips, disappears.  A vast white moon sails up, casting the obelisk into blue relief.

We end our call.  I rise, and pause (not jogging), six feet over.