a copse of trees stands guard over a slippery marble platform upon which a giant disk sits. the disk is supposed to invoke a flute key and it does it¡¯s job admirably. an etched wreath decorates the edges of the disk and the entire thing is visually pulled together by a cross at the bottom. i object to the cross but i decide to just let it slide. i think i¡¯ll have to have a talk with my mom later because i¡¯m strongly against a cross at the tombstone back in san diego. i¡¯ve told her before but i guess my objections have been ignored. an outsized book lays across the platform and carved into it¡¯s red surface is a poem on one side and my dad¡¯s life story on the other. two benches and a smattering of bushes complete the memorial garden. it¡¯s quite nice and i¡¯m happy with what they¡¯ve done to honor my father.



the drizzling rain is making everything wet. i can¡¯t kneel to put in the ashes so my mom has to do it. the workers are all working inside and there¡¯s maybe only a dozen of us standing out here. my mom tells me that we can¡¯t really let the workers know that the ashes are actually entombed in the memorial because of various superstitions or whatnot.



there¡¯s something slightly macabre about taking pictures at a memorial ceremony. we had to arrange the flowers so that they were symmetrical and aesthetically pleasing. because you know, people will notice these things when they look at the pictures. everyone lines up and makes sure that the headstone is in view. then¡­.*snap*. but no smiles. one guy said ¡°cheese¡± which was highly inappropriate but already, the scene was beyond me so i did little outside of throwing a quick glare at the offender. life¡¯s really weird sometimes.