My 91-year-old grandpa died. It sucks for a lot of reasons, but his being dead is not one of them.
After several days of insisting I wasn’t going to the funeral in upstate New York, I decide to show up for my mom.
I head to the rental car agency. We own four cars: a family car, the Toyota Highlander, a 14-year-old Nissan sports car, and two trucks, one from the 70’s and one from the 90’s, Captain’s babies. Out of all of these vehicles the only one that works and takes a car seat is the Highlander and the only one I drive is the Highlander.
At the rental car agency, the customer next to me is spouting off all of his car knowledge at a volume meant to encompass everyone whether they like it or not. I avoid showing any signs that I know he exists.
The rental agent offers me a hybrid. He asks,
“Are you going far?”
“Upstate New York.”
“So the hybrid will be perfect.”
The schmo next to me asks,
“What’s in upstate NY besides a bunch of cows?”
“My dead grandpa.”
Once we get there, my mom, brother and I head out for pizza and beers. We may be staying at a Super 8, but it’s the nicest hotel in town and I have a room to myself. This is my first night away from Baby Bop.
I propose a toast,
“To never coming here ever again.”
I really hope this is true.
The next day we sit by my Grandpa’s dead body for three hours while very few people who aren’t family stop by. This is what happens when you let your friends die first.
Finally it’s over. I’ve never been happier to return home.
Now all that’s in upstate NY is a bunch of cows and my grandpa’s dead body waiting in a fridge for the ground to thaw. The funeral director promised to let us know when the burial is.