Chapter Three: Rory
I'm glad I brought my journal to Grandpa's funeral.
I hate those words, so final. Heavy, like the knot of breakfast that has sat in my stomach all afternoon. Today has been awful.
Mom says that there's this tradition thing about death and funerals that everyone expects. Tradition is important to Grandma and Grandpa. So that's why we wear black and try not to cry and tell everyone that we're doing "fine."
I feel much closer to Grandpa here than in that church, where the pastor said stuff that was supposed to sound nice. Grandpa didn't go to church and neither did we. So why can't we memorialize him somewhere else? When I die, I want people to go somewhere fun, and sit and talk and laugh and stuff. Everyone tells me to "remember the good times," which I'd much rather do when there isn't a casket in front of me. That's so gross.
It's so quiet in here in Grandpa's library, with his books and the things he loved. Everything's made of dark wood and rich tones, muted and dignified like Grandpa himself. I sit here, with no one but my own thoughts for company, and I can feel his presence.
Mom just came in to check on me. I told her I just want to be alone. I think she understood. Have I been short-tempered lately, or has Mom been hen-pecking me? I don't usually snap at Mom just because she asked if I was hungry. I don't care that there's "good sandwiches and stuff" out there; how can anyone care about food right now? The buffet in the living room is like a bribe: show up and get a free sandwich. Everyone headed right for it. It's just as weird as bringing over all those casseroles. Freaky casseroles. We don't eat broccoli, or tuna, and definitely not together.
This whole day has been weird. Or the past week, actually. Everyone's been so extra nice, and it's just weird. I love that my town is like a giant extended family . . . but, geez, I'm not broken! I want Michel to call me 'evil child' again.
And I don't. Sometimes I do feel broken. Normal things have been so much more stressful than normal. Like Jess. He keeps trying to make everything okay, but he can't. And I just don't have the energy to tell him, calmly and maturely, that there's nothing he can do. But then he gets frustrated, and I get frustrated, and I just don't have the energy to fight right now.
I hate this.
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