I see Ramon’s casket up front, sitting between the two altars, isolated, bathed in glorious flowers. It’s an open casket, which I didn’t expect. Catches my breath.

Paul comes over. “Hello, Tim, we all sure appreciate you coming over.”

We’re speaking in subdued, respectful tones, like everyone else.

“Of course, you know I loved and respected Ramon as much as anybody. Had to come. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” and I walk down the center aisle to the coffin.

There’s sweet Ramon, placid, pallid, at some kind of peace. His hands folded over his chest. For the first time in all the years I’ve known him, here he is in a suit and tie.

Needless to say, there’s no visible evidence of a gunshot wound. Thank God.

I set my shoulder bag down, and with one hand on a casket handle for support, I kneel to the floor and share a silent, very private, and personal message with Ramon.

When I stand up and turn around a young woman is approaching me, Hispanic, dressed in black, including a black scarf covering her head, and wearing a pained, miserable look on a beautiful face, with searching black eyes.

Tears are streaming down her face. “Pardon, sir. You Mister Tim MacGhee?” I get an inquiring, hopeful look.

And it hits me. “Why, yes. Yes, I am. And…you must be Juanita.…”

“Sí, señor.”

This is the woman Ramon has lived with for seven or eight years. He talked about her all the time.

I pull her in close and offer some kind of condolence, and then extend my arms so I can look at her. “I am so, so sorry for your loss. Ramon has told me so much about you. He is…was…so proud of you and loved you so much. He made that very clear to me over the years.

“We all loved Ramon, very much.”

More tears, which she wipes away with an overused handkerchief.

“And…por favor, amiga…don’t call me sir. Mi nombre es Tim, mi amiga. Okay?”

“Sí. Okay. I just want you know how much you mean to mi Ramon, and so much he respected you and your business. Ramon always glad he know you so good.” Her broken English interspersed with more tears and more dabs from her handkerchief.

“Thank you so much, Juanita. That means a lot to me. And here, please, take my card. If there is ever anything I can do for you, will you please call me?”

“Sí. Gracias. Thank you.” We hug again, although she’s oddly a little distant this time, and I start back down the aisle.

“One thing,” I hear her say, and pause in my steps to turn around and re-approach her.

“Sorry, señor…”

“No, please, what is it, Juanita? Anything.”

“Well, couple weeks ago Ramon tell me that…when anything happen to him…I should come to you.”

“Ah…yes,” I say, bracing for something I had not expected.

“Sorry, señor, but Ramon pay for apartment. Without him, mi madre y yo, esta nada…he said…”