A Visit

I visited Dion's grave in August. It was such a typical San Francisco day. I travelled from Danville, in flip-flops, a thin cotton t-shirt and short pants and by the time I crossed the San Mateo Bridge, I knew I was in trouble and would be freezing in Colma. The fog was rolling in and as I reached the cemetery, the fog hung so low that moisture covered the front windshield. My daughter, Madeleine, and I hurried from the car to the cemetery's information center to pick up a map to locate Dion's grave. After some confusion, and help from a groundskeeper, we found the corner on the hillside where I had seen Dion's ashes interred in April. I stood there just feeling that fog cling to me. There was no marker, yet, for Dion, only the marker of his Grandfather's grave. The earth was still somewhat disturbed, marking the place where his urn was placed. I know that Dion isn't really in that cemetery, but somehow it feels right knowing that there is a place on the earth that marks his existence. And there is such a strong connection to place in that cemetery--the topography of that northern penninsula area, its climate, its smell and feeling all are connections to Dion for me. Now it has been almost a year since he died. There are so many things that have happened this year that I wish I could've heard his take on, I can often hear one of his off-hand remarks as I'm listening to a newstory or reading an article or watching a movie, or even when I see random people on the street. It's still so hard for me to believe that that's all he got, and that's all we got of him. I haven't forgotten you, Dion!