Woke from a dream where Katie and I drove an old rental car to a rundown, rural cemetery in Florida to see the grave of her mother (who is, as of this writing, still very much alive and in good health, thank God). As we drove beneath trees draped in Spanish Moss, the radio played a Mountain Goats song I'd never heard before which utilized a sample from a Sammy Hagar song. I was worried about my attire, thinking it insufficiently respectful, since all I had to wear was a pink tank top and yellow Bermuda shorts, but I noticed that the caretakers were all dressed in colorful gear, neon yellows and reds and tropical motifs, as if they'd just come back from swimming.
As Katie hiked off over some hills deeper into the cemetery, I sat and talked with the old, white handlebar mustachioed caretaker and his wife on the porch of an old, Southern Gothic looking house about their memories of Katie and her mother, and how far away the grave lay.
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