Off of work today because the office was still closed for New Year’s break, I had some time this afternoon to finally go and do something I had intended to do for a few weeks. Visit my old friend Robert in the cemetery.

Several weeks ago, the service celebrating Robert’s life was held at Robert’s mother’s church- and it was a light and simple, but meaningful, service. It was nicely attended by a number of his friends I know from the dance community, as well as others who also had known him and valued him for other reasons in their lives. The service was short, and his great friend Sam, a kind little woman who helped let his dance friends know about it, sent out an email afterwards thanking his friends for coming. I replied to her, asking if she knew where he was memorialized.

It was an overcast afternoon this afternoon, the air brisk with the chill of winter, and the snow-frosted mountains to the east of the city silver in the cold gray midday light. Robert had been interred in a niche in the Centenial Urn Garden in Sunset Memorial Park, a cemetery just off Menaul west of I-25. Despite the cold air and the drab white skies above it, the Urn Garden felt warm and hospitable, and after a short wander through it’s sections, I found Robert’s space- across from the Lobo featured in the southwest corner of the garden, which was a suitable place of rest for him, since Robert loved animals, and in particular, dogs.

The memorial service a few weeks before had reminded me of a few facets of Robert’s life that I had forgotten somewhere along the way, or did not even know. Robert was a skilled metal sculptor, who had completed commissions and projects for a number of public and private clients. And for a period, Robert dabbled in Pollock style painting, which produced a few pieces of interest as well. Robert had an artist’s soul, whether he recognized that or not. He enjoyed being creative and making interesting artwork.

I stayed at Robert’s site for a little while, just quiet, listening to cars whiz by on the freeway behind us, or on Menaul to the north.

In some of Robert’s turbulent periods later in his life, when he could not sleep, he would go outside at whatever time and exercise himself to fatigue. He told me he would run for several blocks in the neighborhood he was in, and then he would stop and do outrageous numbers of pushups. After the pushups, he would get up, and start jogging again. And he would do this several hours into the late night or early morning hours.

Before I bid him farewell for the day, I told him I was doing this in remembrance of him, and then I dropped down and willed myself to do as many pushups as I could.

And then I told him I would see him again in a few months, and said goodbye.