Ela lived across the street from me in Cape Canaveral. She was with her brothers and they were returning from laying flowers on her mother's grave. I heard about an accident down by palmbay sunday morning while washing down some chocolate cake with Sumatra expresso. Thought, now that is bad. Said a prayer and thought nothing more of it until my MIL called late that evening.
Ela and Phylis were two peas in a pod. When I lived in Cape Canaveral I used to give Ela fresh eggs, we would bend each others ears for hours, I'd do small plumbing repairs round the house and gave her my surplus snook and redfish. I shouldn't eat. I just ate lunch and between the food and yesterday's events, don't feel much like talking anymore. Been riding Cinnamon Girl most of the day. Can't much tell the difference tween wind tears and sad tears. Shouldn't Christmas be happy?
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Kahlil Gibran taught my a long time ago that my sorrow is my joy unmasked.
And the selfsame well from which my tears rise was oftentimes filled with laughter. It is the laughter, the good times, that I will draw at her wake and at her funeral.
