funeral Isaou Rehearsal today, real thing tomorrow. And this time you won't be there beside me holding my hand so I do not break down in front of all of these strangers. Instead a girl will, and she will provide no comfort like you did, and I suppose I could hold her hand but I really do not believe that she would appreciate that. I find it worse when you do not know the person who had died, and you are being paid to be there, because you do not have your own sorrow to focus on and instead must watch everyone else as they mourn for this woman whom they loved and still do love. 090806 ... jane moonlight_mile 090807 ... Isaou I don't want their money 090807 ... tender_square "you know, there's this philosopher i came across and he had this example of the differences between masculinity and femininity. he said something like, 'masculinity is your dad saying "your grandmother died and you have to go to the funeral but you don't have to like it." whereas femininity, says, "your grandmother died and you have to go to the funeral and you have to like it." ' it has this air of authoritarianism to it," he said. which was completely relevant to the situation; his grandmother had died and he didn't want to travel across the country for her funeral. he was doing so because it's what you did to pay your respects and his aunt and uncle had this vision of family togetherness they desired to enact. "i've realized that my job is to show up for a half hour," he said. "this is an awfully long way to travel for thirty minutes," she said. she would be doing all the driving, both there and back. (he didn't drive on highways, said he did enough of that in his twenties.) she had promised she'd get him there and be beside him through the loss. but she didn't have to like it, did she? something told her she had to act as though she did. 221115 ... kerry i am waiting for my grandmother's funeral. she hasn't really been a grandmother to me--she told me when i was a kid that she didn't know how to be one, since she'd never had a grandmother herself. she's 94 and and though she's rounder and her hair is pure white (i hope mine will be that white) still has all her teeth, her same voice, same cadence of speech. sometimes we wonder how long she'll keep on going. she doesn't make new memories but still seems immortal. eventually she will die, and we will all go to washington, the aunts and my uncle and all the cousins and their children, and we'll tell stories about her. or, they will tell stories. all i can really say about her is she collected mice and that she would wink at me from across the room and that we both tend to collapse in giggle-fits that lead to tears and finally having to leave the room so we can put ourselves back together. 221115 ... raze the last time, i found fifteen dollars in fives stashed in the right pocket of a pair of dress pants i hadn't worn in a while. and that was at least one more meal paid for. i told the wife of a man who was dead about the day i met them both. we played monopoly and drank beer. i couldn't remember what he said to me, but i knew it felt like a hug when i needed one. he had a handshake strong enough to break bones. after talking to her once, i wished she'd been my mother instead of the card i was dealt from the bottom of a dirty deck. i don't think it meant anything to her. but it meant something to me. so did he. 221115 ... nr she didn't want one of these and she doesn't have a gravestone. i respect and understand this about but her intangibility is hard to handle. 221115 ... nr *about her 221115 what's it to you? who go blather from