In The Mood for a Drive?

I haven't been on a true family car trip in ages and boy it sure makes us regress.

I'm suddenly belting out show tunes with my mom while my sis rolls her eyes and my dad calmly ignores us to focus on the road twisting for miles ahead of us. He loves his girls but sometimes, admittedly, we can be a bit much.

Seven hours is a long time to be around anyone let alone the crazies who share your DNA.

So the purpose of this trip is not entirely positive but we are making the best of it. It's all very little-miss-sunshine and we are getting a kick out of that. My sister hopped in, buckled up, and promptly fell asleep. I opted to ignore my parents for the first hour and immersed myself in a new book. My mom became navigator - struggling with our outdated gps (that British bitch keeps losing her connection and orders us to "make a u turn")... But my dad just drives. He's good at getting us safely where we need to go.

Our fifth passenger is what makes this trip bittersweet.

My grandpa's ashes are perched between me and my sister in the backseat. He's sealed up in something that looks a lot like the Tupperware in my kitchen which is both odd and comforting. Despite the inevitable sadness of the upcoming funeral and memorial services this week, we know he would want us to find the humor in this situation. It's too bizarre not to appreciate.

It's a long trip but it's not so bad.

Pandora is providing us with endless Taylor Swift ditties (thank god for tswift) and chocolate drizzle popcorn and grapes keep us happily hunger-free.

I think sometimes the best moments just sneak up on you. Right now my legs might be cramped and my bladder might be full, but there's something sweet and wholesome about being cooped up with your family. It's too bad it takes loss for us all to spend time together like this but I know it's what my grandfather would've wanted.

There's a lotta love packed into this little honda right now.

When It's Time To Go

I had never been present at death until last night. It’s not exactly unlike what I expected, but it has a certain elusive component - a characteristic that simply cannot be captured. Death has many sounds.

His individual labored breaths intermixed with the steady hum of the oxygen tank and the syncopated beats of jazz music playing softly in the background. At 5 pm there was still enough life in him for me to get a final gesture of acknowledgement. Not quite a full squeeze of my hand, but enough. There was some fight left in him to leave a lasting tactile impression. Selfishly, I’m glad he knew I was there.

My mother held his hand and I rubbed his shoulder, bony from weeks of refusing food. At 5’11, he weighed less than I did. I joked with him that I’d kill to be at his weight, but he just looked past me blankly, not seeing, not comprehending. It was my first joke that failed to elicit even the slightest smirk from his lips.

The room smelled less medicinal than I would have imagined. I detected the same hints of laundry detergent and burnt carpet as always.

By the time I left, his skin was cool to the touch. The color had vanished from his face but he remained beautiful, taut – statuesque, really. In my grief, I asked myself, what are we if not impermanently stored carbon energy?

I’d say his last 86 seconds were a worthy reflection of his 86 years – courageous, sweet, surrounded by love.

He did not complain, did not cry out, did not even whimper. He breathed until he decided not to. Then he stopped.