When I woke up this morning, my grandmother was dead. The night before she was in the hospital with heart failure. So today is her funeral, a quick thing thrown together on the day of her death. I think it’s too soon, but mom and dad want it over with- not because they didn’t love her, but because they have other things to worry about, like selling Grandma’s house and the new baby, Eliza.

The funeral is in a dreary old building made for this sort of thing. The lights are dim and most of them flicker. I stand at the front, next to Grandma. Person after person, most of them old, come to see her. I’m getting tired of hugs and well-wishes. And casseroles. Ever since Grandma got sick, piles of casseroles have been left for us, in every possible flavor: chicken, cheese, broccoli, mushroom, squash, etc.

I’m especially tired of squash casserole, it’s squishy and gross. But I just smile and force it down, grateful that anyone cares at all. Like I’m told.