Call me Ishmael

Melville’s Last Voyage

Sunday mourning.

I walked down Heart Attack hill to get us bagels, then my wife and I watched the Wimbledon Gentlemen Finals, she more than I — me preferring instead to lazily peruse the NYT, analog style.

After the match, we drove to Woodlawn cemetery to pay our respects to my mother.

I thought about what was going on with my mother a year ago, her final summer.

But on this visit there would be no tears: a first.

We just stood there in silence. I noticed the mausoleum was not as damp and cold as it was last time, when it felt like an abandonned morgue.

Finally I said to my wife that it’d might be cool to find Melville’s grave. It turned out to be in a grassy uncrowded area surrounded by mature copper beeches.

After Woodlawn, we drove to Lake Isle to pay our respects to my wife’s mother at Holy Mount cemetery.

My beautiful wife

After it was all over, I drove to Mamaroneck to get lunch from a popular Italian deli there called Anthony’s, where the bread is brought up from Arthur Avenue in the Bronx.

Naturally we ordered 2 Godfathers.

Fuhgedaboutit.

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