Morning Glory

It was a lovely memorial service, as memorial services go. I actually think of memorial services are really funerals without the presence of the casket.

For an hour and a quarter I stood in the back of the church as we paid our final respects to our friend. I had given my seat up to a young woman who arrived about the same time I started to sit down.

I learned that bit of politeness from Dad.

Standing for an hour-plus like that isn’t as bad as it sounds. I one time stood for a period of four-hours during a military funeral service as the wind blew a blinding snowfall sideways across a Nebraska cemetery.

As the service was ending, two men got up and left the church, obviously to avoid the coming crush. That’s when the woman I had offered my seat too, looked up at me and mouthed the words, “Come, sit beside me.”

With the movement of her lips, she also patted the seat next to her with her hand. I felt like a puppy dog as I dutifully moved to the chair and took a seat.

Jus’ as I sat down,  the Cantor chimed her bell, which announced the service had ended and everyone was expected to stand as protocol warrants in such situations. The woman and I looked at one another and giggled at the irony of my having jus’ taken the seat.

That’s when I really looked at her. On her left foot, tattooed in cursive were the words, “Live life to Love,” and on her left shoulder-blade was the inked artwork of a growing flower — a Morning Glory, perhaps.

“My names Tom,” I whispered as I held my hand out to shake hers.

She grabbed my hand, “Dominique, pleasure to meet you,Tom,” she replied.

I was instantly smitten — but it quickly faded and I felt myself sigh. Dominique is a very beautiful woman — and I — well — I’m but an old man.