My husband cracks me up

Every night at dinner we go around the table, taking turns sharing something about our day.

Last night Nana had come over. Her dinner news was that a couple of her youngest brother’s daughters and their kids were at MaryAnn’s visiting.

Nana’s brother, the baby of the nine siblings, died unexpectedly of a stroke two New Year’s back. The span of the siblings’ ages was more than 25 years. No one expected Marguerite, the eldest, to outlive the baby, but she did.

When Uncle Donny died, I had that ambivilant feeling of sorrow and anticipation, because a death always means out-of-town family will come, and we will have a big get-together. It means there will be a funeral, and I will get to hear stories about the loved one I’m grieving. I’ll get to sit with cousins and aunts and uncles, with my husband, and clasp hands in comfort.

But there was no service.

This is where the conversation went last night. I started complaining.

“Why do people do that?” Usually, when there’s no service, it’s because there isn’t really any family left. Donny had seven kids and a whole grip of grandkids. “Why would anyone with such a big family say ‘No service’?”

My husband said, “Maybe he had no shirt and no shoes.”

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