Going Postal

My dad is finally on his way to California. Seems Fed Ex and UPS will have no part in delivering human remains in any form. Only the United States Postal Service is brave enough to take on that challenge. So, my dad has officially gone postal.

When I called my little sister to deliver the news, I thought for sure she would be happy. Nope. She was worried. "What if dad gets lost in the mail?" I had to think about that one. Other than being mistaken for a giant box of anthrax or heroin, I am pretty sure he will make it to Cayucos all in one … well, in one box.

My sister says she does not find me funny. Oh, really? Then why do you keep laughing at my sick humor? You know darn well, it only encourages me to continue in my inappropriateness.

The fact of the matter is, as my sisters have stated repeatedly lately, everyone grieves in their own way. I am not going to tell my sisters, or anyone else, they are wrong for having a funeral, spending tons of money on flowers and crying over an open grave. They aren’t wrong. That’s just their way. That is just not how I choose to grieve. I don’t know if choose is even the right word because I don’t feel like I have made this choice. It’s just the way I am. Sorry folks!

I really am not cold-hearted and callous. I just pretend to be. I cry every time I open my dad’s closet and see that blue boxing jacket he wore everyday. I cry every time I see applesauce on my pantry shelf, the one food he insisted I serve at every meal. I cry when I smell Old Spice, or see a stinky, old man at the store, or John Wayne on the television. I cry when I think about Thanksgiving and Christmas without him. I cry without him.

So, as I sit here crying, typing this inappropriate blog, I am also hoping he makes it safely to Cayucos all in one …. um, box. If he doesn’t, somebody please call me. I know how to improvise ashes, if need be.