Tuesday, June 07, 2005
Your grandmother Phyllis has died. She was fortunate to have several grandchildren. Many of them visited her, shared their lives with her, and made her feel loved. Unlike you. You were never there. When she was sick, you never came to the hospital. When she asked how you were, you never showed your face. You rarely spent any time with her. Twice in three years is pathetic as hell, and once was just to pilfer her dusty possesions for buried treasure before she and Uncle Richard moved.
The visitation is Tuesday afternoon. The funeral is Friday. Will you appear? Will you say goodbye?"
I'll be there. I loved Grandma Phyllis. I could've been a better grandson. I won't deny that. Last time I visited her I didn't have much to say, and neither did she. She was losing touch with reality, and that was last November. By the time she was in the hospital last week she'd gone completely senile and was unconscious all the time. Why should I have gone? To see her fading away in a sterile hospital room? To see her at her very worst, at the very end? I hate hospitals and I'm not too keen on hanging out with looming death. Sorry.
I'm glad I'll get to look at pictures and hear stories about her. That's a much better way to remember her." 11:10 AM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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