We had stopped to visit my brother’s site at St. Michael’s and went to the chapel to clean up. This is definitely the “Information Age”; even the dead are stored in a database. They have a kiosk set up that you can type in a name and it will tell you (in a sonorous automated voice that is – of course – sorry for your loss) where the person is buried: what cemetery, what row, what lot.
I’m not sure why you’d need to know which cemetery they were buried in. I would think most people would know at least that much. And those who didn’t know probably wouldn’t think to just go to any random cemetery to figure it out.
But I digress.
I came out of the bathroom and Daniel was waiting for me in the hallway. He grabbed me by the hand to show me the kiosk.
“Watch this,” he said and typed in his own name: DANIEL FRANCIS. The kiosk percolated for a bit and then announced that it was sorry to inform us that Daniel Francis was buried in Evanston in a certain row in a certain lot. Daniel looked back at me. His eyes were wide.
“I think it’s talking about me,” he announced to me in a low voice, almost whispering. “Whoa.”
I considered it for a moment. “Well, I can touch you,” I said, giving him a hug. “So I know you’re not a ghost.” He was okay with that and we walked out to the car together.