Getting Ready for Your Wake

Dear Grammie,

Well, here I am, getting ready for your wake. It's weird you know? I did two large photo boards with pictures from your life and it struck me that I won't be able to show you my work anymore. Who's going to appreciate my half-arsed attempt at art like you do? It's like I'm living in a crappy parallel dimension.

Peanut is doing pretty well here. She's almost potty-trained. They say you can't teach an old dog new tricks, but it seems that you can at least potty-train them. Well, if you're really diligent and watch them like a hawk. It doesn't make it easy to get anything else done around the house, but at least I don't have to do the pee-pee dance.

You should see my suit. It looks really nice. Too bad I'm too fat for it. Yeah, I have to wear a girdle-corset type thing. It's not very comfortable and if I'm not careful, I chafe. My shirt is coral pink. Yeah. Well, I’m only wearing it because it's your favorite color. I look like a strange version of myself. Like I'm playing dress-up or something. I vote for "something".

I suppose I should shut my yap and get moving. I'm all ready, shoes even shined, except that I haven't put my "zoot suit" on yet. I'd better load up the car and go over to your house to put my clothes on. They sold it, did you know?

Your three kids sold your house to some stranger. I wanted it, but I already have a place that I call home. I hope the new owner doesn't change everything too much and make it ugly. I spent 33 years coming and going from your house as I pleased and to lose that last little bit of my "always loved and accepted" zone really kicks me in the teeth.

Sorry, Gram, I gotta run right now. I'll write more later when I get home.


Love you always,
Kit