The following is an essay from my friend, known as Edgarhell at yahoo club, or Martin in his real name. He is an American Rinzai Zen abbot, living in Japan. The story is about the funeral of his neighbor, and associated events. It is 15 pages long. I am sure you will enjoy the story as my wife and I did.

Thanks for the opportunity to share your story, Edgar! I am looking for more!!

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Morning Coffee, Afternoon Tea

Some dawns break with a brutality that make you want to go right back to bed. Bad weather alone can’t do that; something more is required. The drizzling October morning I arose to felt rather nice when I stepped outside. The autumn chill, cool and damp against my skin, reminded me of the coffee I anticipated. I looked forward to breakfast at the cafe at the bottom of the hill. No day of mine ever started until the second cup of coffee; everything before that sharp black magic was mechanical drudgery, dull and dim-witted. If some fool telephoned before caffeine sparked alertness in me, I just let the phone ring and ring.

The morning sky hung heavy, as murky and undecided as my own mind. Would I need an umbrella? I held my hand out to measure the raindrops, then decided against it. A hat would suffice. Foggy headed, I lumbered along the wet pathway leading to my temple gate. From the gate to the road down below, rainwater glistened on the stone steps, each step worn smooth with age and the footfalls of uncounted visitors. I gripped the handrail on my way down. I only felt safe when stepping onto the asphalt road below. Traction affords security; my shoes gripped the pavement at last. Relieved, I turned right.

Two neighbors occupied the road in front of me. One I knew and loved, the other I knew of but had never met. Mrs. Yotsuda, ever loveable, helpful, kind, ebullient...the epitome of a good neighbor...stood in the middle of the narrow lane. One look stopped me cold. Her first eye contact congealed my marrow. Her face--until now an eternal fountain of happy emotions--now bore the expression of a condemned criminal. A sudden nausea spun my stomach. Anger and pain twisted at her lips; shame and disgrace burned in her eyes. Her strong arms, now powerless, hung limp at her sides. Even her shoulders sagged with humiliation. Though she remained standing, she stood resigned. Resigned to herself, resigned to me...and most of all, resigned to the ten years worth of dirty laundry that now lay at her feet in a single, foul bundle: The mother-in-law!

Oh my god, I thought, oh my god! "Yotsuda-san, what’s wrong?" I pleaded, moving forward at last.

"She won’t get up. I can’t get her up." A wheelchair stood nearby.

"Can’t you help her up?"

"No. She won’t let me." To prove her point, she grasped the mother-in-law by the arm. The mother-in-law promptly emitted an awful wail; half human, half animal caught in a trap. Yotsuda-san released the arm and the wail ceased. The two women glared at each in silent contempt and confusion.

Though I’d never laid eyes on the mother-in-law until this moment, I had heard stories about her. Yotsuda’s teenage daughters talked about her the most. She was ninety-eight years old, alert for her age, and capable of carrying a conversation. She lived in a small room in the two-story house, immediately adjacent my temple grounds, and had remained largely bedridden for many years...ever since she had fallen down the stairs and injured herself.

"How come she never gets out of the house?" I asked the daughters on more than one occasion.

"She might hurt herself again," they’d reply with civil gaiety. They obviously loved their grandmother.

"Yes, but she might die of boredom, too. Lying in bed all these years." I’d persist, politely concerned about some old woman living so close to me.

"No, she’s fine," the daughters insisted. "We talk to her all the time..."

Eventually, I gave up asking about the mystery grandmother. Who was I, a foreigner, to tell the Japanese how to take care of their aged? What did I really know about this ninety-eight year old grandmother anyway? Nothing. Still, when I thought about it, the apparently restricted nature of her existence bothered me. But what could I do? Nothing....

But not anymore. The old woman now crumpled at my feet resembled a fifty-pound sack of potatoes tossed out of a two-story window. Barely clad in a flimsy dress devoid of shape or color, she looked like a nursing home refugee: lost, cold and disoriented. Her torso reminded me of a diminutive Babe Ruth; her chest both barrel-shaped and emancipated. She seemed slightly hunchbacked. A crooked spine perhaps, or maybe just the miserable angle in which her back rested against the jagged rocks of my temple wall. All four limbs, plainly visible, splayed at odd angles, pained me just looking at them. Jutting out below the unwashed garment, her bony knees pressed up through shiny, thinning flesh, pallid and blemished...or was that grime? And through her sleeves, sick flesh covered the long bones vaguely resembling arms. Elbows poked out away from her torso; she struggled to support herself with both palms pressing into the black, wet pavement. And those sorry, sorry hands: narrow fingers arched across swollen joints leading to ridges of knuckles affixed to old pieces of meat. Her hands looked like a pair of injured white spiders poised to attack.

"Yotsuda-san, what can we do?" I asked, flabbergasted.

"I don’t know."

"Where’s Suzuki-san?" I asked, looking towards her house across the narrow street. Suzuki-san, a knowledgeable, spry matron in her seventies, would surely know how to handle a situation such as this. As a head of the neighborhood committee of elders, she seemed to know everything. Whenever I had a problem, she either solved it outright or gave excellent advice. I depended upon her for many things.

"I don’t know." Yotsuda-san replied, disgusted.

Suzuki-san was home--she had to be home at this hour, I though to myself.... Then it hit me. Yes, she was home all right; she just wouldn’t come out of the house. She probably knew exactly what was going on here...but she would not come out. This problem, this mother-in-law splayed out on the side of the street, was beyond equitable resolution. If Suzuki-san even showed her face through one of her many windows facing us, our mutual friend Yotsuda-san would suffer a lifetime of shame. That shame, deeply ingrained in Japanese blood, outweighed the immediate needs of the mother-in-law.

A car approached up the lane. I stepped to the side of the road. The driver, a neighborhood housewife, slowed to a crawl and--careful not to drive over the mother-in-law’s legs-- passed us by. Though largely expressionless, her face revealed tinges of discomfort. She drove by slowly, then drove off...a typical Japanese reaction to a scene too difficult to register.

"Goddammit," I cursed, angry now. Though not yet soaked by the light rain, the hapless mother-in-law wasn’t exactly dry either. But she would be wet if we continued to stand around much longer. Pneumonia crossed my mind. "Come on; let’s lift her into the chair." Yotsuda-san and I each took hold of an arm. The mother-in-law howled. Taken aback, we let go.

"Can she walk or stand at all?" I asked.

"She’s being just angry--stubborn." Yotsuda-san countered sharply with uncharacteristic disgust. Though I’d always felt Yotsuda to be a genuinely wonderful person and a dear friend since the day we met, a new side of her now revealed itself: The mother-in-law, daughter-in-law relationship. Since both hailed from the Japanese countryside, their relationship had probably been long, hard and nasty--with the daughter-in-law undoubtedly bearing the brunt of untold abuse. Poor Yotsuda, I thought in a flash; such a happy soul...silently imprisoned for decades in feudal, Japanese misery. Now that the old woman could no longer defend herself, was Yotsuda-san finally taking her revenge?

I bent towards the woman, putting my face next to hers to get a better look. She smelled like old age. That distinctly vaporous blend that startles all children--and many adults--in the sobering presence of the old and infirm: Prescriptions, potions, ointments...ill-health and neglected hygiene...all wrapped up in seldom washed laundry. Was she wearing a dress, I wondered, or were these pajamas? I couldn’t tell. Fashion--the way we define and distinguish ourselves in health--had abandoned her long ago. No clothing could disguise her condition now. Loose, flabby skin barely contained her collection of miraculously functioning organs sadly mounted on a buckling structure of osteoporosis. Unmistakable whiffs of urine, soft and pungent, swirled around her. Impotent apothecaries seeped through her pores and filled the air like circling vultures. Warm vapors flooded my senses with the smell of the impending and unavoidable: Death. Death. ...No, I perceived, she would not die here, not now--not this week even. But the flowers for her funeral had already been planted.

"Can you stand?" I asked. Though her eyes showed some clarity, her expression revealed confusion.

"Who are you?" she stated bluntly, her voice sharp but irregular.

"My name is Martin. I’m your neighbor. We have to get you out of the rain. We have to lift you into the wheelchair." In spite of the urgency I felt, I tried to sound reassuring.

"Who?" she blurted again, her faced churning in bewilderment. I wondered if my foreign face merely added to her confusion. She belonged to the last generation of Japanese that believed that no foreigners could speak her language.

Another car drove up the lane. I stepped aside as another perplexed housewife slowed down, steered around us, and then drove on up the hill....

"He’s the abbot!" Yotsuda-san stated loudly. "He’s the abbot of this temple."

"Who?" She blurted again, looking back and forth at both of us with little comprehension.

Enough of this, I thought. "Yotsuda-san, grab the wheelchair; I’m going to lift her into it." I straddled the old woman, squatting down in front of her, and grasped her by the armpits. At first touch, she howled in protest. "Yow! Stop! It hurts!"

"Here we go," I commanded, lifting her in spite of the commotion. Yotsuda-san rolled the chair under her and I let her down softly. "Yeow, ouch!" She protested. "You’re hurting me." With the mother-in-law safely in the wheelchair, Yotsuda-san and I stepped back for a much-needed breather. Now what? I wondered.

"Where are you taking her?" I finally thought to ask.

"Down the hill to the relatives."

"Do they know she’s coming?"

"Yes."

"Do they know she’s wet?"

"No."

"Call them up and tell them to start the bathwater running. I’ll take her down myself."

"Okay."

The relatives greeted me with a flurry of activity outside their home when I arrived five minutes later. Though each smiled brightly as we brought the old woman in the doorway, some things not even a Japanese smile could disguise. The relatives thanked me profusely when she was safely inside, then I walked home alone.

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Time drifted by in the usual manner. Few days passed without Suzuki-san, Yotsuda-san and I converging at the foot of my temple steps. When going somewhere, we merely greeted each other in transit, perhaps pausing for a polite chat before going on our way. When unfettered with serious destinations, we prolonged chance meetings with small talk while standing to the side of the narrow lane. If conversation dragged on pleasantly, we took a seat at the base of my temple steps. A cherry tree provided ample shade over the rectangular chunks of stone steps; the smaller stones appeared to weigh at least half a ton. Suzuki-san or Yotsuda-san frequently provided drinks, hot or cold, depending upon the seasons. Typically, we sipped our refreshments while talking about nothing in particular. Sometimes passing neighbors joined in our conversation. More frequently however, passing neighbors became casual objects of our conversation. Since there’s not really much to talk about in a village, villagers can talk forever about each other. Between the three of us regulars, gossip, idle speculation and small talk generally drifted aimlessly as a lazy summer breeze. If any two of us engaged in conversation, the third person eventually drifted in, drawn by the gravitational force of friendship.

Shortly after the incident with the mother-in-law, Suzuki-san spotted me on my way to do some shopping. "Better avoid talk about the grandmother," she confided in hushed tones, glancing right and left.

"How’s she doing?" I inquired quietly.

"She’s fine now. They’ve got her in a nursing home. Not even the relatives could take care of her. No room."

"Pity about the nursing home, but I’m glad to hear she’s okay. She must have been a handful for poor Yotsuda-san. I had no idea."

"It’s not over yet."

Yotsuda-san, perhaps overhearing our voices, emerged from her home. Cheerful as ever, she smiled from ear to ear. Little Yotsuda sometimes seemed so happy, so bursting with benevolent energy--and ever ready to help others--that she often reminded me of a living buddha.

"Martin-san, thank you for helping out the other day. I don‘t know what I would have done without you," Yotsuda-san beamed in the sunny weather.

"It was nothing. How’s she doing now?"

"Fine. She’s in a nursing home."

"Probably for the best. She must have been a real handful," I sympathized completely. The mere fifteen minutes I’d spent with her had exhausted me. I couldn’t imagine the trouble she had caused Yotsuda-san over the decades they had lived together.

"Now she wants to see a lawyer; she wants to sue me."

"Really?" The notion caught me by surprise; Japanese seldom sue. Lawyers are rare, very expensive, and it takes years to complete even simple legal actions. "I can’t imagine that anyone would listen to that kind of talk."

"And she’s been telling all the relatives how cruel I’ve been, how I never did anything for her... I did the best I could. I tried. It’s just that...." Yotsuda-san suddenly burst into tears. Her chest heaved as she sobbed. At first I thought she was joking; the way she cried seemed to pantomime a childish fit. She rubbed her fists into her eyes like a six-year-old girl. I almost laughed at her tearful antics.

"Now, now," piped in Suzuki-san, all smiles herself. "It can’t be helped. There’s nothing to do now."

"I did the best I could. I tried. Now she’s saying all those awful things about me," she sobbed, gasping for breath. Realizing that her tears were genuine, I resisted the sudden urge to throw my arms around her, to give her a big hug. But the Japanese do not hug.

"Well, she may be saying all sorts of things," I consoled, "but who is going to believe her? Everybody knows what a wonderful person you are."

After further consolation the conversation broke up. During the following weeks, Suzuki-san and I gingerly avoided the topic in the presence of Yotsuda-san, though Yotsuda-san herself sometimes volunteered updates on the mother-in-law’s condition. Though none of us said so, at this point, we were merely waiting.... In a small village such as ours, where nothing really happens--where unmarried men and women dare not prolong conversations alone in public--reports of a good death trump discussions about the weather every time.

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The mother-in-law died a few months later. I don’t recall who told me, but I know where I heard it: at the foot of my temple steps, information central in our node of the neighborhood. Yotsuda-san, by then, had largely returned to her natural state of gaiety; largely, I say, because we both politely conspired to forget the unpleasant incident on the street. Yet, as long as the mother-in-law had remained alive--even safely removed to a nursing home--her presence hovered over our conversations like a dark stretch of rain-clouds churning on the horizon. Upon reports of her death, the rain-clouds promptly vanished. Clear blue sky prevailed, and Yotsuda-san’s sunny disposition at last emerged victorious. In Japan, the death of anyone that old insured a happy funeral: the celebration of a release perhaps long overdue. People drank freely in commemoration to a life lived that long.

Though the Yotsuda clan belonged to a different sect of Buddhism, "The True School of the Pure Land", owing to the convenience of my location and the intimacy I shared with the entire Yotsuda family, it was determined that both the wake and the funeral would take place at my temple. Talk of fees made me uncomfortable, but Suzuki-san saved the day, again, by suggesting we leave the financial decisions to the head of the village government. He determined the appropriate sum of renting my temple for both the wake and the funeral would be one thousand dollars. Though a mere fraction of the cost professional operations charged, the price pleased everyone including myself. One thousand dollars was a tidy sum for a temple as poor as mine; I could buy a lot of tools for that price. Moreover, a higher sum would have made me uncomfortable; I had no desire to profit from such wonderful neighbors. Likewise, the Yotsudas seemed pleased too; one thousand dollars to lease an entire temple for two days was a downright bargain.

The cheerful staff from a local funeral parlor invaded my temple the following morning. Efficient professionals scurried about draping walls with long black and white curtains both inside and outside my temple. Flower stands announcing tomorrow’s ceremony were erected at the foot of my temple steps. My altar, too, soon stood buried beneath banks of long stemmed, white chrysanthemums, freshly cut and crisp with life; tomorrow they would be in full bloom, all pedals stretching open toward the heavens. Large lanterns, both electric and candle-lit, appeared here and there--to light the way for a variety of visitors coming and going all night during the wake. A young woman in her early thirties energetically occupied my kitchen, gaily rattling away among her many stacks of company teacups, teapots, saucers and giant kettles. She processed all consumable deliveries: stacked cases of beer and rice wine in one corner, piled high boxes of dry goods, mostly rice crackers, in another corner. Even the contents of my refrigerator she rearranged with a smile both efficient and friendly. Near the end of her preparations, tea kettle burbling away on my stove, she inquired sweetly, "Would you like a cup of tea?" "Certainly," I replied, thirsty from trying to assist in the arrangements here and there. The professional staff, dwindling as their duties were completed, disappeared quietly one by one. By the end of our tea together--sipped while standing in the middle of my kitchen--she remained the sole employee of the funeral parlor. I remembered nothing of what she said, only that the conversation was pleasant.

Shortly afterwards, the undertakers arrived, together with Mr. and Mrs. Yotsuda. Mr. Yotsuda carried up a futon and after some deliberation, plopped it down in the corner of the largest room of my house. The ceremony hall, where the funeral would take place, was determined to be too small for a wake. Mrs. Yotsuda, ever smiling, carried a small pillow and single blanket, folded neatly into a square. The undertakers, two men clad in white uniforms, delivered the deceased mother-in-law up in a stretcher; a white cotton sheet shrouded her body. The undertakers transferred the body from the stretcher to the futon, resting her head gingerly upon a pillow. Mr. and Mrs. Yotsuda removed the undertaker’s sheet and replaced it with their own, thin blanket, which covered the deceased from her neck to her ankles. A small white handkerchief was laid over her face, leaving her ears and stock of curly gray hair plainly visible. Her bare feet stuck out the other end of the blanket. The arrangement complete, the undertakers departed. Suzuki-san, a master of congenial timing, stepped into the house one minute after the undertakers had gone. The four of us living took positions around the body lying in state.

"My, isn’t she pretty," Suzuki-san exclaimed with a smile.

"Yes, she is," Yotsuda-san concurred, her face beaming reverently. Mr. Yotsuda, the eldest son of the deceased, smiled too, but his smile betrayed grief: the corners of his lips struggled upward, but his eyes poured sorrow. I felt sorry for him. For the Japanese, no family ties were stronger than the one between the eldest son and his mother. Not knowing what to say myself, I mostly observed the scene, politely nodding to various passing comments. While the ladies chatted amicably, Mr. Yotsuda sulked near the foot of his departed mother’s last bed. The body remained, but the spirit was gone forever. No breath of hers would ever call his name again.

"Look, Look. She’s moving!" one of the ladies proclaimed, though I don’t know who said it. This caught both Mr. Yotsuda and me by surprise. While the ladies cackled lowly, Mr. Yotsuda perked his head and looked hopefully for movement--but there was none. Smiling bitterly, all hope gone, Mr. Yotsuda reached out, grasped his mother’s foot and wagged it affectionately. "Yes, yes. She’s moving," he added weakly, with pitiful, mock optimism. Then he let go of her foot and hung his head again. Though the ladies had only been trying to help, I could not bear what I perceived as a cruel joke. I dismissed myself from the room.

To avoid the all-night festivities in my own tiny temple home, I checked into a small business hotel downtown. From my experiences in other temples, wakes tended to be quite noisy, with lots of drinking and laughter until the wee hours of the morning. Besides, I figured, the Yotsuda clan probably preferred to celebrate on their own. Fifty bucks bought me seclusion in the shape of a clean little room almost big enough to swing a cat in. The diminutive bed occupied one corner--pressed up flush against two walls--and the floor space between the bed and the desk mounted on the opposite wall provided just enough room to walk in. Since I was on the 5th floor, I opened the security glass window; the classical red brick wall three feet away blocked all hope of a view. Never mind, I thought to myself. TV remote in hand, I plopped on the bed and flipped through channels until I fell asleep.

When I returned the next morning the temple grounds were so awash with people that I hardly recognized my own home. Many of the Yotsuda clan greeted me with bright faces, and I was especially pleased to see Mr. Yotsuda happily sunning himself on my front verandah. I took a seat next to him and inquired "So, how did it go last night?"

"Barely slept at all," he declared with a smile. "Now I know what you mean when you complain about the mosquitoes; they feasted on us all night long. The mosquito coils hardly helped a bit," he added with a wry chuckle.

"Yes," I concurred, "the trick is knowing where to place the coils. You have to know which way the wind blows at certain times of the night." Built at the same time roughly one hundred years ago, both my house and the adjoining ceremony hall seemed to have more cracks than a barn. Many bugs, mosquitoes in particular, seemed to think of this place as their second home. The sound of a mosquito coil burning out seemed to ring like a dinner bell to hordes of the little pests apparently waiting outside in the wee hours of the night.

Mrs. Yotsuda, dressed in a black kimono, spotted us chatting on the verandah and sidled up with her usual gay smile. "Thank you so much for letting us use your temple; it was wonderful," she beamed. I sometimes marveled at how happy a human being could be--even with no particular reason.

"My, you look positively fetching in that kimono!" I replied, happy that everything seemed to be going well.

"Thank you, thank you," she chortled, then giggled away like a little girl on her seventh birthday. "Want some tea?"

"Thanks, I’ll get it myself," I said, using that as an excuse to get up and wander through the crowd a bit. I soon spotted Suzuki-san and worked my way over for her report. "Who are all these people?" I whispered, once I’d pulled her aside, "Are they distant relatives?"

"No, no," she replied in a low voice. "Some of them are, but many here are people from the extended neighborhood." As she spoke, I’d already begun to make out a few immediate neighbors, mostly housewives; I hardly recognized them with their hair and faces all done up, formally attired in somber black dresses. "But what are they doing here?" I continued, "Were they friends of grandma Yotsuda?"

"No," she replied in conspiratorial tones lower still, "many of them probably just want a chance to get a good look at your temple." "Ah, I see," I replied. That made sense: the reticent Japanese, especially these mountainside villagers, seldom had the courage to just climb up my imposing temple steps alone to look around. Housewives in particular, ever wary of neighborhood gossip, seldom dared to stray into my single male territory...and only then on rare official visits. News of my enigmatic existence had spread even before I took residence here three years earlier; and ever since then, reports circulated that I’d done wonders in repairing and restoring their neighborhood temple. Vacant for twenty-six years, the place had taken on the image of a haunted house. Now, fueled by fresh rumors of the recent completion of a traditional Japanese stone garden that I designed and created by myself--an American no less--many of the neighbors were dying to take a look at the place. What better excuse than a funeral! While paying their respects they could wander around freely, both inside and out, and get a good look at everything they’d been talking about over the years. How nice, I thought. I took the opportunity to mingle among the crowd and chat with some of the neighbors I recognized. Housewives, fearless now in the company of so many people, eulogized everything they saw.

The funeral began at eleven a.m. Three priests from The True School of Pure Land sect lined up inside the ceremony hall, where grandmother Yotsuda now lie concealed in a coffin surrounded by flowers in front of the altar. The surviving Yotsuda clan filed in, took seats, and the ceremony commenced. In the Japanese tradition, no sermons were delivered. Instead, striking a variety of bells and wooden drums, the priests merely chanted in the usual sonorous chorus while thick streams of incense smoke curled upwards into space. Though no one likely understood more than but a few syllables of the ancient Chinese texts faithfully delivered in sleep-inducing monotones, none bothered scratching their heads in confusion. Meaning means little to most Japanese. In the face of something as disconcertingly final as death, tradition, religiously followed, successfully buried most, if not all, disturbing unfathomables. Whether the dead died in peace or not--often beyond the influence of the living--the living could at least bury the dead in peace. Death might be unpredictable and messy, but funerals occurred right on schedule.

The catering staff of the funeral home began distributing formal box lunches while the ceremony continued. Several of the female guests rushed to arrange cushions in the largest room in my house. Before each cushion, set almost touching each other, caterers placed the box lunches. Next flowed cans of beer, straight out of my refrigerator, followed by glasses and smaller cups for rice wine. For teetotalers, soda pop and cans of oolong tea were dispersed randomly. Settings for thirty people, squatting shoulder to shoulder, were laid out within five minutes. Barely enough room existed to tiptoe between each place setting, which consisted of a cushion, a box lunch, beer, a glass and a cup. The only thing lacking were people; and they filed in immediately after the funeral ceremony concluded.

Suzuki-san, ever the wise matron, and with a lifetime of experience in temple affairs (she served as the unofficial abbot in the temple across the street from me,) appointed herself as unassuming maitre d‘: without anyone taking notice, she arranged it so compatible personalities would sit next to each other. Younger people bunched together into one corner of the room; the heavy drinkers--Mr. Yotsuda among them--huddled together in another. Suzuki-san directed me to a seat on the side of the room dedicated to the gaggle of neighborhood widows. The largest and liveliest bunch in the entire room, they giggled and clucked approvingly as I tiptoed towards my seat. Perky Hamada-san, a short woman in her sixties, greeted me with her trademark unctuous smile: "Yes, come on over and sit with us aunties; we’ve saved a seat just for you," she proclaimed in her mildly grating voice. The widows all teetered as I took my seat, giggling at Hamada-san’s sauciness. I enjoyed Hamada-san, but only in small doses. Like many of the neighborhood widows, she had a way of stretching conversations well beyond my interest. I did my best to remain engaged as long as possible because I felt sorry for Japanese widows. Unlike their American counterparts with countless activities to choose from, church or otherwise, Japanese widows had nothing: no bingo games, no card parties, no social activities...and almost no chance of remarriage. Even dating other male widowers was unthinkable. Once your husband died in Japan, that was it: you spent the rest of your life eating meals in front of the television and sleeping alone. Consequently, about the most exciting thing that ever happened to these ladies--some of them still attractive for their age--was a funeral. Death gave them an official reason to gather around, share a meal--and gossip--with others, perhaps drink some spirits...and speculate about who next, in our tight little neighborhood, was destined to depart to the netherworld. Suzuki-san herself, age seventy-two, frequented the moribund subject. From her seat directly behind me, I heard her announce for the first time today: "I don’t mind if it’s me; I’m ready to go. But who’s going to take care of my temple after I’m gone?"

Turning my head sideways to address her, I responded flatly "Yeah, who?" Suzuki-san and the widows gurgled. They all knew the answer: me. Though her temple had an abbot, her son-in-law, he was never around; he worked full-time in a company, never spent time in a monastery and consequently, the temple was nothing more for him than a place to eat, sleep, bathe, and live. Suzuki-san did all the temple work, and I frequently helped out in projects she could not do herself: topping trees, trimming bushes, transplanting....

"My, you look handsome today," Mori-san chimed in while munching on bits of fried shrimp. Looking good in her sixties, she too could talk a long and lonely blue streak.

"And you’re looking like quite the darlin’ yourself," I replied--to more approving laughter--knowing full well how the rest of this conversation would play itself out.

"Haven’t you found yourself a wife yet? I don’t know how you can stand to sleep alone," Mori-san continued.

"I’m not looking for a wife and I don’t always sleep alone," I replied vigorously, knowing that would please the ladies for moment. It did. Yotsuda-san, seated behind me next to Suzuki-san, chirped in her bit of gossip, which everyone knew already: "You should see his girlfriend! She’s young and pretty."

"How old is she?" the widows inquired in chorus.

"Twenty-five," I replied with waning interest.

"How nice!" the widows responded immediately in choir. Further comments bounced around like ping-pong balls while I munched away on my lunch: "It must be wonderful to be that young again." "Yes, wonderful." "I miss cooking for two people." "I don’t like sleeping alone." Meanwhile, Yamaguchi-san, a brazen young widow in her mid-fifties tiptoed delicately over to my seat, squeezed in beside me and, leaning forward precariously, filled my teacup again. "Thank you," I said with a smile. "You’re welcome," she teetered suggestively, then got up to return to her seat--resting her hand on my shoulder as she departed. The widows giggled again. The row of ladies sitting behind me murmured suggestively...or was it envy?

"I’ll bet your girlfriend has a nice, firm body," someone said, though I couldn’t see whom. Japanese women were very practical about such matters. Indeed, they were quite pleased to publicly broadcast certain comments that western women, or even western men, would not admit to thinking even in private. Consequently, it was easy to adore Japanese women of any age.

"It‘ll do, " I replied laconically with a smile. I lifted the teacup to my lips for an exaggerated slurp. They crowed at that as well. If I were a Catholic priest or a Protestant minister, I mused yet again--fully inured to the saucy nature of our conversation, which, I hasten to add, was unfolding according to the usual pattern--I’d be sued, transferred or excommunicated in a heartbeat. But since I was a Zen Buddhist priest--and a single one at that--owing to a certain moral relativity, on occasion I was expected to indulge in sexual repartee. Not to do so would seriously disappoint. These Japanese widows knew little about western morality, nor did they care. Solitude, however, they knew about--knew too much about. Day after day, night after night...alone.

Nothing could stop the ladies now. In the midst of so much company, egged on by little sips of beer and rice wine, they laughed happily at anything. And with a man around--me--there was plenty to laugh about. With alcohol flowing freely, if moderately, and me as their communal ersatz husband, their community companion and conversation piece, who could ask for more? Life was gay again. Other groups in the room, too, swelled into random waves of bawdy laughter. Mr. Yotsuda, quite the drinker himself, emitted lubricated guffaws that pleased me the most.

"Don’t you miss mama’s breasts?" rejoined another widow, her once proud chest thrust forward--nostalgic twinkle in her eye.

"Yes, they’re nice, too." I countered according to script, "Enough to make a grown man thirsty."

As if right on cue, Yamaguchi-san squeezed in next to me with the teapot a third time. "Would you care for another cup of tea?" she inquired ever more coyly, her shoulders and knees pressing up familiarly against mine as she kneeled next to me. More reserved widows eyed her brazenness with envy. Yamaguchi-san took obvious pleasure in becoming a momentary center of attention. The row of ladies sitting behind me murmured with amusement.

"Certainly, madam," I declared prominently, flattered by her attentions. She was becoming more attractive by the cup. Again, she leaned over in front of me precariously, delicately...slowly...to fill my cup--erotically distant from her kneeling position. Her rump in the air, barely maintaining her balance, she seemed quite willing to topple over into my lap. "Here, let me help you out," I offered; I slipped my arm around behind her and placed my hand flush around one cheek of her buttocks. The ladies behind us, taking it all in, exploded into a burst of hysterical laughter. A half-chewed piece of carrot flew out of someone’s mouth, Suzuki-san‘s, I think, and hit me on the back. Yotsuda-san, beside herself, doubled over and spilled her tea. The ladies in our half of the room rocked with so much laughter, members of other groups stood up to see what the fuss was all about. Yamaguchi-san, pleased and embarrassed, carried the teapot back to her cushion.

After lunch, the Yotsuda clan collectively departed for the crematorium. Their parish priest, probably waiting for them already, would recite a few brief sutras; the family would say their final good-byes, and then the grandmother would be incinerated at roughly 800 degrees centigrade. The carefully regulated fire might burn two hours, depending upon body weight, followed by a thirty-minute cooling-down period. Remaining bones would be crushed, mixed with the ashes, and then placed in a white urn. In the end, the average adult weighed about two pounds.

Sunset that evening found me prowling among the temple gardens again. While the evening sky lit up in her usual dressing gown of luminous shades, I hunted weeds. Wending my way through and around bushes, hoe in hand, I scratched the back of mother earth. During the day, weeding seemed like just another tiresome chore--one I could never catch up on; but during sunset, it was a casual pleasure I could never get enough of. Fewer cars sputtered by on the lane below by temple gate, human traffic waned, and that certain calmness befitting a mountainside settled in as the last pleats of sunlight retreated silently across the sky. During evenings, weeding was just a casually productive excuse to enjoy the sunset. And as nightfall slowly pulled its dark blanket over my head, alone, and according to habit, I reminisced the passing day’s events.

Familiar voices interrupted by solitude. Without complaint, I set my hoe aside and peeked through the temple gate. Sure enough, near the bottom of my stone steps, Suzuki-san and Yotsuda-san sat huddled together talking quietly--about the fullness of our day, no doubt. I stepped down to join them. Who could resist such a fine mixture of personalities? In the private depths of our own company--three souls wed by circumstance and affection--it seldom really mattered what we said to each other. Social graces were overlooked, gaffes ignored, and improper comments often reigned with good humor. Intimacy requires little content for a conversation.

"Ah, Martin-san, thank you so much for letting us use your temple," Yotsuda-san exclaimed; pleased as ever to see me again.

"Any time," I replied. "After all, what is a temple for, if not people?"

"Everything went smoothly, too," Suzuki-san added, looking pleasantly tired in the fading light.

"Didn’t it though?"

"Sure did."

"I haven’t had that much fun in a long time."

"Me neither."

"That’s the most fun I’ve ever had at a funeral."

"Yeah, I can’t wait for the next one."