julie lives here.

Thus grew the tale of Wonderland:
Thus slowly, one by one,
Its quaint events were hammered out —
And now our tale is done
And home we steer, a merry crew,
Beneath the setting sun.
~ Opening poem, stanza six, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

Some kind of wonderland. It’s like some kind of wonderland here, I kept telling myself.

I was so tempted to keep calling her Alice instead of her real name. Alice was always on the tip of my tongue, completely unintentional but so appropriate. Or at least it felt that way. She was someone I only met just minutes before.

She wore a vintage dress, light layers of chiffon colored with aqua and blue flowers, her hair floated around her face in soft, ringlety curls.

We entered this quiet place together, on mental tiptoe, trying to be respectful and invisible. The walls around us circled with those who had passed before, strangers to us but also so known in the way that sometimes strangers can be familiar. This place is the Columbarium, a cement cupcake of a building four floors high, each floor containing many tiny glass-enclosed cubbyholes that gracefully house the remains of generations of San Franciscans.

She had her own reasons for wanting to go there. To be photographed and be alive in a house intended for the opposite of such.

I had my own reasons for wanting to go there. We didn’t compare notes. We didn’t talk about why we both felt this was the place to be. We just were.

‘Have you guessed the riddle yet?’ the Hatter said, turning to Alice again.
‘No, I give it up,’ Alice replied: ‘what’s the answer?’
‘I haven’t the slightest idea,’ said the Hatter.
‘Nor I,’ said the March Hare.
Alice sighed wearily. ‘I think you might do something better with the time,’ she said, ‘than waste it in asking riddles that have no answers.’ ~ from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

I think about dying quite a bit. I mean, I think about it a lot more than I used to, which was basically never. And now it’s a constant presence in my awareness. There is usually a part of my day when I think about dying, even if it’s just for a second. I think about Little Helen. I have a photo of her on my nightstand, another on my dresser. I can feel in my chest, my stomach, what I felt, what I witnessed. The before, the during and the after.

It’s not just about missing a person. I think about what it all means in the big picture (I haven’t a clue) and if there’s a purpose to our lives besides what we make of them (I doubt it) and what I can do in the meantime (I try, strive). It’s not a morbid thing (I don’t think) and I’m sure it could be easily masked by diversions, drugs or some other mental trip, if I chose to stop myself from this mode of thinking.

Some days this awareness really bothers me, like it’s an annoying nervous tic I can’t help, or it saddens me because I really have no answers, and I know it’s why I get terribly impatient sometimes. And some days it just is what it is. Those days are best.

‘Begin at the beginning,’ the King said gravely, ‘and go on till you come to the end: then stop.’ ~Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

The Columbarium is like an overgrown dollhouse, beautiful and pristine and very still. The air is thick with the lingering scent of incense. Light is softly filtered here, through tall windows of colored glass. It is silent inside. The only sound that day was the click of the camera’s shutter.

The cubbyholes hold urns of every kind. They are ornate, engraved, enameled, plain. Photos, keepsakes and memorabilia sometimes nestle around these containers, each holding a person who had once dreamed, loved, hoped.

I can’t explain it really, but it was a comfort to be there. I’m still trying to figure out why, and perhaps like all of my other questions, I never will have an explanation. But for this moment, it is what it is, and that’s okay, too.

I hope my companion, an Alice who is not Alice, felt the same. You can read her story here.