As I enter the bustling Metro of New York City, I buy a cheeseburger with some sweet onions as I wait for my train to Boston. As I scroll on my phone waiting for the train, I think to myself about where my key to my family’s columbarium niche went. I realize that it could be with anybody from my vast family, consisting of around 500 family members. I sigh with frustration, as this trip was specially planned to clean the columbarium. The whistle blows, so I get onto the train.
In the booth, I search on Google for the most likely locations of the key, but it tells me that the search area is too wide. Just as I am about to give up, a man around 39 years old enters the booth and asks, “Can I sit here? Everywhere else is full.”
“Oh my goodness, so you really are part of the family!” I say, putting my hands on top of my head.
“I wonder if you have a ring of some sort that once belonged to my mother and her grandmother, and so on.” He informs me, his words sounding very serious.
