When I was a young pre-schooler and the world had limp careless bangs, my family was more vigilant with cemetery visits. Everybody would just hang like a typical picturesque picnic at the park: sprawled on the grass, laughter, chatter, and food, but with graves and rosaries. Back then, I was a little bit of the family’s darling because I was my grandfather’s local grandchild favorite (the family patriarch supposedly loved my cousin in the States more than me but we never got around to testing that theory), so relatives would ooh and aah at everything I did.
Once, while randomly running around, I passed by a grave’s fallen flower pot and helped it stand properly on its place. It took a lengthy conversation in my head before I did. I was too happy making the world spin but I told myself I had to stop. I had to take time and put the flowers back in their place for the poor dead person who owned it. It’s the right thing to do, I thought.
An aunt or an uncle saw it. Eventually, a small group formed around me and crooned. They told me how nice I was. I glowed. I was never sure if putting on a goody-two-shoes show was part of the conversation in my head too.