The money in the cemetery
Another day, another funeral. Big one this time with lots of people standing around in the baking sun, all come to pay their last respects to Paco. He was a neighbor and lived in one of the upper floors of our building. He was Spanish speaking and I hardly knew him, but he seemed to be a nice guy. Whenever our paths crossed in the lobby or the elevator or the garbage room I got a cheery "Hola!" which I understood to be "Hello!" in the language I travel on. So our conversations were limited to a few choice words on either side. Not being directly involved in the funeral, so to speak, I had a chance to look around the cemetery.
After I had read a few of the inscriptions on the gravestones, it suddenly struck me that all these people were lying at exactly the same level, minus six feet from ground level. They were all facing the same direction, east, and of course none of them were enjoying the view. For once money was of no importance. Nobody asked if you wanted to be buried in the front row, the one with the best view. No one cared of you were not on the left side and couldn't see the pianist's hands. No one was offered a wider, longer plot if they were willing to pay for it. For once, and probably the only time in their lives, all these people were equal. Not one of them was better off than anyone else. None of them was complaining either. It seems that this is where you have to be in order to be in that ideal situation. What a shame.
I don't know how much money Paco had. He was 86, I heard in one of the eulogies. He had a stroke that left him helpless and he is probably a lot better off at peace than he would have been struggling for every breath. So long, Paco. Hola and sleep well. I'm sure you deserve it.
