Rest in Peace

It's Tuesday morning as you read this. It's Saturday morning as I write this. 

And if all goes according to plan, meaning we've packed the Acura to the gills, remembered all the camping accoutrements, and secured the same sites at Upper Grey's Meadow that we have been visiting year in and year out for the past two decades, it also means the final remains of Deb, my late wife of 29 years, have been laid to rest.

Here's a map to set your bearings straight.

My bearings are all discombobulated at the moment. 

Deb and I both come from a long line of Jewish traditionalists. Burial, not cremation. A shortened shiva, not the week long agony. And a headstone, perhaps even one with a witticism (Deb's father Bob had his headstone inscribed with the telling footnote, "No onions, please.")

In other words, this ash-spreading business is/was all new to me. But as my grief therapist -- my Bubby, as I refer to her -- says, "You're doing a mitzvah, you're fulfilling Deb's last wishes."

This meadow, in the picture above, is hardly unique. You can find thousand like it in the Sierras. It overlooks Rt. 395, America's Most Scenic Highway and is bookended on the other side by Nevada's White Mountains. 

The picture hardly does it justice, as it sits at 7000 feet above sea level. Just beyond the ridge on the right side of the picture and in the valley below, you can see the infamous Manzanar Internment Camp. Another testament to America's xenophobia.

But just as the sun goes down and the light takes on a purplish hue, the meadow takes on a magical feel. 

It is quiet. It is surreal. And the warm wind that comes up from the valley feels like velvet across your bare arms and legs. Every year we visited, we made twilight visits with our cocktails, pub cheese and a handful of stories of our kid's latest adventures/foibles/verbal gems.

One year, actually many years ago, when Deb was healthy, and while Paul was telling a story about one of his weird 2nd grade students or Colin was emitting gas and trying to blame it on me, she leaned over to me and whispered, "This is my Happy Place, Rich. This is where I'd like to be laid to rest."

I never thought that day would come. 

And now it has. 

Even 2 &1/2 years later it all seems so unreal. 

Tonight I will drink a glass of Lillet (Deb's drink of choice) in her honor. Followed quickly by a few shots of Bulleit Rye Whiskey to get that excessive sweetness out of my mouth.  But most of all, I will take inventory of my life savor the gratefulness for all the laughter, love and kindness she has brought into our lives.

Good night, Deb.