Standing at the graveside I could have sworn I smelled chili. It could have been. It was Price Hill, you know. We were at “new” St. Joseph cemetery, the Irish one, as the locals say, not to be confused with “old” St. Joe’s, which looks much newer than the new one, and in which the Germans are buried.
After honoring our parishioner Mary with the Catholic prayers of committal, I took four of her pink roses, after asking her family, of course, and headed over the hill to find the graves of my parents. It is a curious thing, maybe just in my heart but maybe in many hearts, that I remember dad, as I stand there, but I miss mom. Really miss her. I remember those rattling bottles that dad put up with behind him in the truck for our sake, as he went delivering milk house to house. And I remember that because of that job, which I am embarrassed to admit now embarrassed me when I told others what he did for a living, dad was able to come to everyone of my high school tennis matches. I remember dad. But I miss mom. I miss her patting me on the chest with the back of her hand, as she did until the day she died, whenever I kissed her goodnight or goodbye. There is still a hole in my heart, as I wish that I could hear one more time our exchange, “Hi, momma … Hi, baby!”
After clearing a few weeds away from dad’s music notes and mom’s bingo card, I went to Price Hill chili. Whenever one makes the trip “all the way over to that side of town,” one deserves to have goetta and eggs for lunch.
With Open Doors 