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By llamasarecool, Brooklyn, NY

I wasn’t allowed to call Gran’s funeral a funeral. The term “funeral” was too funereal, said my dad. Go figure.

All the women at the memorial looked the same: beehives and rogue from the 50s. Their southern accents stuck like molasses in the heat. The house was too small for everyone.

For a couple hours they milled around. A rotating squadron—like clockwork from patio to yard to living room and back again. And when they pulled out of the driveway, speeding on the one-lane road in their Oldsmobile’s, I was a little relieved.

That night we slept on the pull out couch and the six of us boxed and bagged and folded everything. Out from the highest branches of the closets came misshapen sweaters, slippers without their mates, and various half-finished knitting projects that had seen better days.


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