Why I Visit the Cemetery Where My Parents Will One Day Be

I answered a work email on my phone while sitting here. Is that wrong?

“Are you alright?” my mother asked me one day a year or two ago.

“I mean, no,” I said, “but why should today be any different?”

This is what passes for humor in our house. When I say, “our house”, I mean, “our family” and, when I say “our family” I mean “the family we once were but still pretend to be when we can muster the energy to pretend.”

Anyway, we’re dry with our humor. What the hell is the opposite of that? Moist?

Ew. White chicks the world over recoil.

In a small way, I resented her for asking me if I was alright because, when I’m really struggling and I really need her to ask that question, she doesn’t. But your mother’s probably like that, too, isn’t she?

My mother was asking if I was alright because I visit the cemetery, twice-a-year. Not just any cemetery; Haym Salomon Memorial Park. As cemeteries go, it’s a hell-of-a-nice one. It’s where our peeps at; our homies, our amigos. Some of them, at least. The ones who were Center Stage for most of my childhood. My grandparents, though one of whom died before I was born — she was still Center Stage; very much so. My great aunt and great uncle; an obscure familial designation but they loomed large in our lives. In the eighties and early nineties, we made a…