meta

tonight in the car, "Lightning Crashes" came on the radio. and for maybe the second time ever, it didn't make me think about being eight years old on the beach, or walking around a block in Minneapolis on the way to a Sigur Ros concert with two people I loved at the time. for maybe the second time ever, I heard it.

and then the dj came on and said something about "floorbound placentas" in this nasally tone of voice and it churned my stomach in a way it hasn't been churned since some other song on some other day, I guess.

tonight at Target I bought a long black skirt, a little sheer, a little ruffled, the kind of thing a widow would wear to her husband's funeral if she only half-heartedly wanted people to think she was mourning in her heart, and the cashier said, "oh! this looks fun and festive."

I smirked. "I have a funeral to go to."

this afternoon at work I got a call on my cell phone and my mom needed a ride home. she was over at Grandma's crying, even though it wasn't her dad.

Grandpa finally died, and it's one of those situations where I feel like I should feel bad for not feeling bad.

my best memory of Grandpa involves a Christmas Eve when I was in second grade, the only Christmas he bought everyone a gift. every cousin got an oversized sweatsuit. mine was so large I couldn't even wear it as a joke. that was the year my parents got him a huge box of gourmet jelly beans with a tiny scoop, and while he was meting them out to my relatives I tried to find the bathroom but instead walked straight into a closet full of Playboys.

and that is my best memory involving Grandpa Ed.

everything else is just awkwardness and glaring. racism, interruptions, the smell of piss, remembering the stories. how he beat my aunt with a hairbrush, how he smashed a whole cake in another aunt's face. how my most Catholic of grandmothers divorced him because she had to get out.

and I guess I should feel bad because I can't stop saying mean things about him even though he's dead and the last time I saw him all I could do was stare at his hands, which were turning black, and try not to think about his shitsplashed bathroom walls.

and all I can think now is I hope everyone's okay. everyone's asshole dad dies before shit gets resolved. death is jarring even when it's been a long time coming. especially when it's someone's asshole dad who never said he was sorry.

I don't know. I've said a lot of shit about my dad, but I love him and I wish his asshole dad didn't have to die before things got straightened out. and maybe this is the most ridiculous thing you can ever say about your grandpa who's just died, but I'm really glad my dad didn't turn out like Grandpa Ed. he did, but he didn't, he mostly didn't and as much as he pisses me off sometimes, he mostly didn't, he's mostly okay, he's never raised a hand to any of us and he's always fucking been there.

so I don't know. I don't have anything nice to say. I don't have a memorial for my grandpa. this is what I write to internet strangers, my grandpa was an asshole and now he is dead, but I don't even know how much of an asshole he was. I don't. because I hardly even knew him. and I guess maybe that's part of his being an asshole.

whatever.