Wednesday, October 4, 2017


We sat in my grandpa’s garage and talked. It was a horrible event -- my grandpa’s funeral. He’d held family dinners in that garage. There were so many people that they wouldn’t fit in the house, so he set up tables out where he usually parked the cars, where he fixed musical instruments and where he kept his golf clubs. He wanted all the family together all the time. And he held the family together, even toward the end when family was splitting apart (sometimes by distance and sometimes by resistance). In his death, Grandpa brought us all back. And in his garage after the celebration of his life, we had nothing to do, nowhere to go, no smart phones to steal each other’s attention . . . We told stories about him, about our pasts, about anything. And we did it for hours. That’s everything to me. What’s everything to you?

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