Funny thing about memory. I know, for fact, that I do not remember in colour. It is worse than that. I remember in the wrong colour.
A recent family visit stired up memories of my sister and a peculiar experience. Long story around the purchase, but the stone was respectful and classy, and I was pleased with the choice.
Having seen it only rarely over the years and quite frankly never under ideal circumstances, I was standing on my dead sister.
I visited after my political loss. I was certain I could find it. I had a clear mental image of the orientation, the size, colour and shape. But they were all wrong.
I made a photographic record and a note of trying to remember in detail what I expected to find here. For sure it was shiny pink. Very ornamental and larger than all of the stones near it. It was none of that.
In my mind, this sacred place where my sister rests is erected a beautiful monument, even if only I can see it. Vicki would’ve loved this summer. We could have sat out and smoked for hours.