I don’t suppose we’ll hear from the teenage tourists again until they reach Managua on Thursday.

This follows ìMore Than a Phone Callî , and I donít think it stands alone. Itís a phone call I had with my mother about the funeral for the husband of my motherís friend who shot himself in his living room.

ìYou went to the service for Aliceís husbandî?

ìWe did. It was a beautiful day, seven oíclock in the evening. Not even hot, no hotter than eighty.

ìWhere was he buried?î

ìThe cemetery on Oak Hill Road. Itís out 41, on a hill near Whirlpool?î

ìThere are no hills near Whirlpool. it must have been past the airport.î

My mother loves it when I tell her sheís mistaken about something she knows is true. I think we might have been arguing perceptions.

Patiently, she answered, ìIf you turn right near Whirlpool you go up a hill.î

ìWhirlpool is as flat as the nearby airport runway… .î

ìThere were about twenty-five people. The cemetery had only markers, no upright stones, and it was touching to see the children and grandchildren running about, playing. Although my father wouldnít have allowed it. He said stepping on graves was disrespectful. Alice was wearing a black pantís suit she bought for the service. She weighs eighty-four pounds and her fitter said she was a size zero. I didnít know there was such a thing.î

ìEighty-four pounds. How tall is she?î

ìNot much taller than I, but she started losing weight when George got cancer.î

ìA woman who scrubs the blood of her husband off her carpets. I donít know…I pictured someone bigger. How about Lisa, the daughter he was so close to?î

ìShe was still pretty tore up.î

My precise mother never says ìtore up,î and sheís probably cringing reading this, but itís more evocative than ìtorn up.î She said it this time, so it stays.

ìLisa came with her husband and children. You know I always thought she had gay tendencies, but thatís because she had so closely imitated her fatherís mannerisms. She walks like he did.î

ìNot to be morbid, but you saw them lower his body into the grave?î

ìNo, no, he was cremated. They buried his urn next to his daughterís grave, or they sprinkled his ashes on it. I couldnít tell from where I sat. You remember that is what they did with Mackís sister, Joan. Her ashes were placed in the ground next to her motherís. I donít know what people will do with me. Not that they will listen to what I want.î

Years ago, not long after her brother died, my mother and I argued about her burial. She wants to be cremated and her ashes flung out to sea, or buried in a garden, or enriched with an emulsion of sunflower seeds and fed to the cardinals – anything but a body in a grave. Itís not lying in dirt, itís the waste of space, of her burden on the environment. I was adamant. I wanted her in the ground, somewhere I could go and talk to her. I didnít want to be following some nesting song bird just just to say, ìHi.î It wasnít too long after this conversation that I decided chasing birds wasnít so bad.

ìWe listen, you know we do. Weíll do what you want.î

ìJust be sure you play a recording of Tess (Brianís wife) on the Tabla Drums. Itís hard to get people to do what you want. Alice couldnít get the minister she wanted for the funeral. You know, they werenít church going people. But she has iron up her back, she told me, ë Weíre just going to have to do it ourselves.í ì