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Well fuck.
My grandmother died. She was the strongest woman I know. I like to think I got it from her. I sure as hell didn't get it from my mother, who crumples and sobs at every downfall.  I know I got my obsession with yarn and making things out of yarn from her, she's the only other person in our family who suffers from the same affliction. I still have a pile of chevron stitch afghans she made, one every year, only for me. She and the rest of my extended family were wealthy, respectable, dignified. My family was the fuck ups, the black sheep. Sometimes looking back, I wonder if she made those blankets for me out of guilt. I wonder if she blamed herself for raising my father to be an abusive drunk. I know once I got older, she talked to me about my family. She'd say things like, 'You're going to go much farther than the rest of them.'  She was constantly laughing, even at the end. She had a great laugh, you could tell she loved being happy the way someone does when they've seen too much grief. Making her laugh made you feel so fucking good. 

The sad part of someone dying is the loss, the grief of them being gone forever. But the gift it gives us, or at least gave me this week, was a reminder that I am still alive. It made me look around and ask myself, 'What the hell am I doing here?'.  I don't have an answer yet,  but it's stewing.

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Thanks, buddy. She was pretty old, and ready, so that helps me feel better. Plus, I know she's somewhere with my grandpa bitching at him to get a haircut.

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