The Graveyard

We are squeezing the last little drop out of the Christmas holiday. By we I mean I. And by Christmas holiday I mean state of denial; I mean period of time when you stop thinking about financial ruin, broken relationships, personal wounds and failures. Some of us have gone back to work, but not completely. There are still decorations up on the street, twinkling lights and glitter: still stale Christmas cookies on the kitchen counter, kids at home. We think we don’t want this time to end, but why not?

Oh yeah. That.

Well…enough is enough isn’t it? We can’t eat cookies and chocolate forever. I mean we can’t eat cookies and chocolate forever and still be healthy and productive, and clear headed and capable of moving forward.

I mean…

I was thinking this morning about how back in Philadelphia we always go to the cemetery at the end of the holiday. My grandmother died a few days before Christmas a while back, and we kind of just kept the tradition going. We all pack into the car:

  Fuck! It’s cold! Move over! Oh Jesus, how long is this gonna take? What a fuckin charade. Do you have to talk like that? Who farted? Can we please just have some common decency. Why can’t we just say "hey Gram" from inside, near the fire? Can we get donuts after? Dead people don’t stay in the graveyard. Fuck, get off! Can you not talk like that in front of the three year old. Where do you think I fuckin learned it? Ow! Oh my god, I'm gonna pee. What is wrong with you? Come on, stop it. Stop it. STOP.

Yeah, it’s fun.

Really it is. Years ago when my grandfather was still alive and came with us, he’d give a sentimental speech and grunt out a few tears, and we’d all huddle together suppressing giggles and rude, silly comments. Afterwards we’d rush back to the warm car, excited and smiling, glad to be done, ready for the fun to begin.

That’s the way to start a new year.