A rose. Good instinct to name her Rosemarie. Today, as I stood at her grave, it seemed all so unreal. The sun brutally bright in the chilly air, the chirping birds caused such a din in my head. At a time, when my ears still rang with the lovely music, her husband had chosen to rise up loud in the chapel while he and her son took her remains from the stand to carry her out.
We had to walk for quite a while, passing what seemed to be endless rows of graves. I never knew, that cemetary was so extensively large. It is located at the south end of our golf courses in Frohnau, which in turn is the north end of Berlin. I have a seven or so kilometers drive from my office to get to it, circumferrencing the golf courses and the suburban village to get back south into Berlin and again northward to the graveyard. It’s northernmost corner bordering on hole fifteen of our East Course, as I noticed after wondering, where the funeral march would lead us to. As we already had passed what seemed to be the “posh” part of the burial ground to an area resembling more wilderness and woods than what it actually is supposed to be.
Expressing my condolences to Rosie’s husband, after I had bid my personal farewell to her, his eyes pointed out the clearly visible teemarkers on the fifteenth, asking me: ” Have you noticed this?” I replied: “Just one good pitching wedge away.” Good choice, I thought. He had taken so much care to find the perfect spot for Rosie. Right underneath a tall tree surrounded by shrubs and greens in a corner as seclusive as possible, just one good pitch away from a place she loved. I don’t think I will ever play the fifteenth again without greeting Rosie.
floatsome 