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There were many people who thought Jonathan Reed was on the verge of full-blown insanity, a presumption which seemed quite reasonable, given that he spent every day sitting in a mausoleum in Brooklyn’s Evergreens Cemetery.

This weekend my brain decided I wanted a cup of tea—hot tea with cream and sugar (or, in my case, International Delight Sweet Cream coffee creamer which easily takes the place of both). For me, the first step is putting the kettle on the stove (Mickey Mouse themed that sounds like a train whistle when the water’s boiling) and then going to the mug cabinet to select the one that best reflects my mood for the day.

Out of curiosity, I consulted Merriam-Webster (via my good friend Google) regarding the definition of the word “monument”. Of course, when I hear the word, I think of something that marks the final resting place of an individual or a couple or, in some instances, entire families.

When you walk through the doors of The Read House in Chattanooga, Tennessee, you may feel as though you’ve stepped back in time, the simple, quiet elegance speaking of days long since passed. And if you spend enough time there . . . and you listen carefully . . . you may also hear the echoing whispers of the spirits that many believe dwell within.

There are times in this life when words simply fail to adequately describe a situation. Losing someone you love is without a doubt one of those times.

I was walking down the stairs as he was coming up . . . the big, wide stairs off the funeral home foyer that tempt unattended small children and confuse the adults who still don’t know we’ve moved the lounge downstairs.

It was November 27, 1982 . . . a football Saturday in Tennessee, only not in Knoxville. The opponent was Vanderbilt University, and the game was being played in Nashville, Vandy’s home turf.

I had watched as reporters and meteorologists detailed what was to come and emergency management services begged people to evacuate.