But there are, I'm sure, ficticious moments from some one else's life.
My grandfather passed away in the witchy hours between Wednesday and Thursday. I like to think that, very secretly, he would appreciate being lead gently away in the arms of three witchy young women, at least one of whom he'd loved previously.
He was eighty-eight, and served in . . . one? Both? World Wars. Definitely World War II. He flew in airplanes, was an airman, which is relatively safer than grunt work, I suppose. He came through it like this: he never, ever swore. Not a single cuss word.
Impressive, in these times. It's the year 2010, so that minus 88 is. . . 1922. So, probably just the 2nd world war, it seems. Cars were still a rich person's thing, no internet, no real phones for at least thirty years.
He owned his own bed and breakfast and is survived by his three children, all wonderful humans.
It isn't sad, I keep telling myself. It's impressive, but then I break down and can't talk and my eyes leak like mad -if it were Sara, her mouth'd be a waterfall and I'd laugh at her and she'd laugh and maybe half gag on the oceany outpouring.
He always made Sunday lunch, when we visited. And when we didn't he and his friend Bess would drive deep into the country side and try new, family owned, pubs.
This is desperate and pathetic, is what this reminiscing is. All hot and bothered because why? Because I wasn't there enough? Because I didn't bother writing enough? Because I missed so many birthdays? Didn't send cards?
"He knew you loved him," they'll say, and they'll be liars when they do. "Could've done more, you." is what I think they should say.
I almost got a speeding ticket today, too. Instead I got a citation for not having up-to-date car insurance, and after that my mom called and asked me if I could pull over. I didn't, and I didn't have to. I think the word is: sublimation.
That's all for now.