I went to a funeral yesterday. I’ll go to a funeral tomorrow.
Two uncles died last week, one from each side of the family. I’m sad. Part of me feels like I’m making too much of it. One was 80, one 94. Both had been sick. Neither death was exactly a surprise.
But I think grief accumulates. And I think it reminds.
I was 19 when the little stripped-down Toyota pickup I was driving had some sort of problem. I went to a garage in my college town and they came out and told me what my options were and I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to call my dad. He wasn’t even especially good with cars. I just didn’t want to be alone with my problem. But Dad was gone.
I made a decision and handed over my credit card and waited for my truck. I drove away and parked in the student lot and cried.
When an uncle dies, or an aunt, I slip a little further away from the girl who had someone to call. There’s one less person who remembers my parents when they were young, before my mother had gray in her hair and a furrow between her brows. Who remembers when my father could stand on his head.
I’ll be back to my usual baloney by Tuesday.
But I’m sad today, the day between funerals.