It was there in the obituaries-
Geraldine Johnson, aged 97.
"Grandma Johnson" gone at last!
Though sad, he felt a wave of exhilaration.
He could gather with the family again.
Myriads of memories flooded his mind.
He could see her standing on the deck of the Oslo,
A robust young woman with a child in her arms,
And another peeking from the folds of her skirt.
He recalled the look of panic turning
To one of recognition as she caught sight
Of her old friend with a small boy
And her already Americanized husband.

He lived again the years of hardship
Mingled with the joys of friendship-
How he and Ralph as small boys
Had pulled a little red wagon down to the lake
To pick up cans near the saloons
Or load up with scrap wood from the lumber yard.
He remembered many a time he and his siblings
Had spent the night at "Grandma Johnson's"
While their mother scrubbed floors for the rich.
And how the friends' family was ever increasing.

He would jostle Ralph, ask Annie
If she were still afraid of the dark
And tease Rose about her dimples.
He felt young as he briskly mounted the mortuary steps.
Shown the room, he opened the door and stepped in.
Oh, No!  Who were these decrepit oldsters,
Lined up against the wall staring as if at an intruder?
This was not the right room.
Retreating, he stood a moment, thinking.
Ah, maybe this was the right room.
But how could they not speak to him?
He felt a sense of humiliation that they did not.
Slowly he descended the mortuary steps.
The sun was under a cloud and the air heavy,
Even as his body seemed weighted down.