So this past 4th the family and I went to a nearby city’s fireworks EXTRAVAGANZA. It was a crowded affair with lots of traffic, but we outsmarted the masses and parked in the graveyard across the street from the fair where we set up our lawn chairs and cooler and blankets and watched the colorful explosions in the quiet company of the Henderson family and their neighbors. (And that is one impressively long run on sentence!)
Helen has a dark, goth-like side to her otherwise vanilla personality that simply delights me but makes her father worry, so she was the first to grab the flashlight and take off exploring. Minutes later she came running back convinced she’d found Cleopatra’s grave and come on! Come on! Come see!! Hurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrry!
Like it was going anywhere.
Now having had some schoolin’ I was pretty sure we were a little north of where the Cleopatra is interred, but, ya know, I’ve been wrong before. I took Helen’s offered hand and allowed myself to be dragged along, tripping over markers and being mildly freaked out by those stone angels that stand guard over decomposition.
“See?” Helen asked proudly, shining her flashlight in my face and then down to the modest stone. “Cleo P Embers,” she read in awe.
“Cleo Patra Embers?” I asked.
Helen nodded with some authority. “Embers was her married name.”