Rosemary's beloved cat Casi

In my two visits to Westminster Abbey it was on the second time that I went with a mission. I was with Rosemary and our two daughters Alexandra and Hilary. I located the tile with H.G. Wells on it and I stepped on it and said, “How are you H.G.? “

My interest in death began when I first found out of its existence. I was 8 or 9, and our next door neighbours on Melián Street in Buenos Aires, had a son that had crashed his motor scooter onto a train at a level crossing. I have no idea why my mother decided I should go and see the young man in the open casket. His face was all in bandages.

From that point on and for many years I thought that the only people who died or won the lottery were our neighbours.

When Eva Perón died in 1952, Argentines mourned her loss with great ceremony. Her open coffin was  called a "capilla ardiente" or burning chapel. It was then I began to recognize the funereal music of Chopin. For over a year the time of her death interrupted all radio programs with, "It is 20:25 the hour when the spiritual head of our nation, Eva Perón entered immortality."

The second death in my life was when I had to deal with the 1966 funeral of my father in Buenos Aires. He had died on the street and his friend, a police sergeant, took him to the nearby Hospital Pirovano, where my father was declared dead. The sergeant took the liberty of emptying my father’s pockets as he would have been robbed at the hospital. He called me that evening to tell me that my father had been saving money so he could bribe a general to get me out of my stint as a conscript in the Argentine Navy and I would be sent home to my mother in Veracruz, Mexico. My father had enough money to pay for his funeral. I was a penniless conscript. I purchased the coffin but I was not able to secure at the Chacarita Cemetery a grave in perpetuity. It meant that after 7 years my father’s remains would be disinterred and thrown away. I have no memory of the funeral.

My second death was that of my grandmother. She died in 1970. Rosemary got to meet her. A friend, Raúl Guerrero told me when I mentioned that I had no memory of the funeral, that both of us carried the coffin.

My third death was that of my mother who died in bed in 1972. Both Rosemary and I watched her breathe in and not out. The only doctor in our neighbourhood who was able to come to pronounce her dead was a veterinarian.

I made all the arrangements for her funeral and bought her coffin. Rosemary and I were so poor that her parents helped us. Again I have no memory of the funeral but I do remember that when I ordered her tombstone it read “sursum corda”. My mother often would say this to me when I was depressed. It is from the Latin Mass and it means “lift up your heart”.

What these three deaths in my family have in common, is that they were all buried. I  could go to Mexico and I would be able to locate my mother and my grandmother.

It is my Rosemary’s death on December 8, 2020 that changes the equation. It has left me troubled.

I watched her die and a few minutes before she did die she asked, “Am I dying?” I could not respond.

From my hanging chair in the living room I watched her shrouded body being removed by the funeral people. That was the last time I was aware of her corporeal existence.

Alexandra took her ashes and spread them in her garden in Lillooet. I understand fully her intention. Rosemary loved that garden.

But something about my old-fashioned beliefs has me grieving even though I know I would never go to a cemetery had she been buried in one.

Because Rosemary and I believed we would never see each other again, I find myself almost in delight to be alive as she is in my constant memory all day. An oblivion, a total one, will mean the end of all that.

And yes, H.G. I know where you are. I also know where Rosemary’s beloved cat Casi is. His ashes are here in my scan.