Two funerals in a month.

My mother's, at dawn with only three of us--pastor, a member of the funeral home staff and myself--in attendance.

Also, my father's. A burial at sea at my request, although he could have claimed a plot at Arlington. There was not much in the way of remains on the USS St. Martin to recover. Which was, after sixteen years submerged, perhaps fortunate.

A part of me is glad that there is no one to call, no one else to notify. A part of me is selfishly relieved that my mother and I do not have to endure whatever it is that might have been one another's grief.

I flew from Yakutia to St. Petersburg, hoping for a European contract possibility so I can immerse myself in languages and cultures only just familiar enough to have facility with.

This, to avoid anything that might feel or look like home.

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