The shame of my grandmother's death really revolves around my selfish whims. I miss her. Conscious or not, I miss her every day. Today she would have been 84. That's not that old, right? Dying at 71 years old just seems way too young.
Sure I got to experience her for 28 years. While I felt so old and worldly at 28, I am a whole different person at 41. Perhaps she would have been something a bit different at 84. Maybe. Maybe not. She was pretty consistently mature, thoughtful, wise, intuitive, and loving for as long as I knew her.
Alas, that's how the cycle breaks. You are born, you experience some good, some bad, some unexpected, some fascinating, some frustrating, the exhilarating, the stunning... then, sometimes inexplicably, you die.
As bad as George W Bush is (and the W is for Mope), the cracks that my grandmother would have had would have been priceless. I have to give it up, she was easily the funniest person I’ve yet met. Funnier than Richard Pryor, Moms “funniest woman in the world” Mabley, Sarah “even though she’s a woman comic” Silverman, Larry David, and Dave Chapelle. Seriously. What she would have said about that idiot Bush. Oh, and she was just warming up on Clinton.
Just remembering how fucking funny my grandmother was makes me pretty happy. I can hear her now, “What, happy I’m dead? Get out of here with that.”
Anyway. I'm sure Brennan channels her (or vice versa - God help us all). Mom, keep chillin', I'll keep gooofin'. I love you and I miss you. You will never be forgotten. Oh, I don't need a coat, it's like 97 degrees out.
Oh yeah, Merry Christmas. I know you loved that.
