Them Changes

I will begin anew. I will be the only guilty innocent and all others shall be refered to as him/her/he/she to protect them and possibly to keep me on my toes.

Yesterday, I found myself at that Church again. The Latvian one that I grew up around. My eyes were burning, as if acid rain replaced my tears. Was I crying? No. Was I sad? Maybe. Not for me but for her. She was never close to her mom in a mother/daughter sense. She was too close as a co-owner in the family business... and business included money and gossip.

She, the she in the urn, was not the most amicable of souls. She would yell, smile, yell some more. You couldn't tell if she was happy about being angry, but she enjoyed sharing her thoughts, in that not quite English language of her's.

While I was listening to the Pastor, I started thinking about all the funerals I've attending sitting on those soft wood benches. One, no, two, no three prior to the current one. It seems like Latvians are more prone to dying than normal humans, or I just am closer to them, closer in the funeral aspect of life. My mind wandered, seeping in and out of memories from those other ceremonies. Eventhough my eyes burned, I didn't want to shed a tear. I thought about baseball, car racing, soccer... all the stuff guy's have learned to meditate about to keep their feelings from over taking them when they are expected to maintain themselves.

...And then it's over. Ashes to ashes and all the rest in peace. Fifty-eight people, including myself, exit the great hall. Fifty-eight more than I presume will attend my last mentioning on earth before I'm put to my ending place. I take a moment to contemplate the future of not having a future. Of no more days.

I make my remarks and then pass on the post-sermon luncheon. I watch some afternoon Champions League... to bored or tense or thoughtful to pay attention. I head downtown assuming he'll be there. The one face other than her's in the hall that I recognize. Sure enough, he makes his daily stop at Club Dufois. He's still dressed in his finest threads complete with shiney Italian shoes. Me, I've long since discarded my Sunday slave-wear.

We talk and I hear his stories of her time, escaping from the Nazis. Joining the resistance force and eventually ending up in a refugee camp in England for a few years after the war. I only knew her as my landlord, who would yell at me for having long hair and for corrupting her daughter... who was a few years beyond my age. She would scream and her face would turn blood red... probably due to all the blood in her face. Then at other times, she would throw a beer in my hand, force a tort down my throat and then drag me onto a dance floor... but only at religious events. She never called me by name, but always called me, "Mister Ambassador," because one time I said I was thinking of going into political science. Strange how strange names stick.

Eventually the topics change and I envy his life a little less. I hear how he grew up needing body guards, about all the deals that weren't dealt as planned and how his family is a little more complex because of marital disbliss.

Then he walks into the bar. He brings his aura of chaos and anger with him. He makes all his remarks, seeing which one's wound any listeners. He throws in maddening scowls at us followed by the joy in the face of a little boy. If someone ever needed a permanent flashlight shining up from his chin, it's this guy. He throws his remaining change on the floor, puffs on his cigarette whilst a friend lies to his boss on the phone and threatens another with a knife... albeit, all two inches of it.

I eventually leave knowing I said stupid remarks about an engagement ring, how I'm somehow more liked for having offspring and generally happy with my lot in life.

Then I get home. I'm not home first. That wasn't part of the plan.