uh…Richard like God…

Kyou, jii-chanwa nakunatteshimaimashita (today, my grandpa died). To sum up – I had already come to terms with this and so I think I’ll be all right for the moment. What I haven’t come to terms with is that I have to write down some story or memory that I have of Grandpa and send it to my grandma so that it can be read at his memorial service on Friday. I realize I technically have an extra day to think about it (what with the time-zone differential and all), but I’m worried because I can’t think of anything to say. Grandpa didn’t say or do very much for as long as I can remember (my mom says he used to play with me and my sister and read to us when we were little). Kat has a story, but I can’t think of anything. Not even some endearing habit of his. I’m trying to decide if it’s the pressure of having to think of something or if I honestly don’t have any meaningful memories of my grandpa. I suppose I’ve never been one to think of a good response on the spot. Whenever I’m having an argument with someone I always think of the perfect nasty thing to say three hours later. And if one of you were to die right now I’d probably give some sort of lame eulogy like “uh…Richard liked God…They’re together now, which is good, because Richard was a big fan of God’s. Yeah, a real big fan.” Or “Linds always did say, ‘YEAH BACON!’ and ‘GO AVOCADO!’ The combination of the two killed her, but that girl really new what she liked.” I think the real moral of this story might be “Don’t ever let Audrey give your eulogy, unless you want it to be irreverent and lame.” But I suppose you could substitute “give your eulogy” with just about anything (e.g. “talk to you, “be with you in public,” etc), since just about everything I do is irreverent and lame (e.g. standing in a church where people are praying and having my cell phone go off).

I try to imagine Grandpa and what he looked like and the way he moved around. It works – I think of something, perhaps it’s even endearing – Grandpa used to always refer to the cats as “meow-meow.” Then I remember that the last time Grandpa referred to a cat as “meow-meow,” it was when he was asking about Morris’s whereabouts (when my grandparents were both in the hospital, Morris, their cat, was put in a kennel, where he eventually died – for the concerned: it was age and depression, not abuse or mistreatment). This was when Grandpa was being a bit senile and he had probably asked Grandma about Morris about 1000 times and each time she tried to gently tell him that Morris had died in the kennel and would not be coming home. He was being particularly difficult that day and the conversation went something like this:

Grandpa: “Where’s Meow-meow?”
Grandma: “The cat’s dead, Charlie!”
::silence::

Harsh, but Grandpa never asked about “Meow-meow” again. See what I’m talking about? Lame and irreverent.

In other news, I straight up ditched a class for the first time in my life today. We’ll see if I pull a repeat performance tomorrow.

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