The Lilac Festival was rained out, so we drove instead around Mt. Hope Cemetery. At 87 and extremely frail, Aunt Dorothy faces death as a constant companion. "So many dead," she repeated, "and so many yet to come."

     We drove down a row of marble crypts nearly as large as her apartment in the Home. The names ran through our heads like a brief history of the city. "They're all the same now," she said.

     We drove into the oldest section of the cemetery. The roads deteriorated into gravel. They twisted and turned around hills and valleys too steep for any other purpose. "No sense in wasting good land on dried up old bones," she said.

     We entered a particularly tangled cluster of trees. All sorts of birds bathed in the pools that had formed in the cavities of toppled tombstones and darted in an out of the shafts of sunlight as they caught flying insects. She sighed deeply. "Life goes on."

     "I'm sorry to bring you to such a dreary place, Auntie." I offered my apology as we found the gate. "Are you going to report back to your friends that I took you to the cemetery on our ride?"

      "No need to apologize," she chirped back, "I'm having a wonderful time."