I have only a few short thoughts today. I’m spending my words planning a possible Chuck-suggested and contest-entering-and-losing story. I used the words yesterday to try to start the story but ended up hitting a large and particularly pointy wall. Today I spent my words jotting notes. I haven’t had much luck with this strategy before, and I’m not sure this time will be much different. The next step is to talk it over with the Doolies and get her idea, claim it as my own, and write a particularly dastardly take on a surprisingly good idea.

The funeral was difficult. These things are always difficult. As much as I dreaded the day, there was a certain sense of closure and family closeness that came of it. I learned an incredible amount about my grandma. She led a very difficult but happy life. She never complained. She was a beautiful person who loved to dance and was very friendly with everyone around her. I also learned about the history of my family, and I even dredged up memories from my childhood. (I didn’t think I had any memories from before last year.) Death is a powerful event. If you believe there is a larger plan, then death has a purpose for everyone it touches. I’m just not sure I believe in the plan. (It may be a growing older thing or a real thing, but I do feel myself leaning in that direction—see my mythical unfinished Jewish essay.)

One of the beautiful parts of sitting shiva is discussing memories of the deceased. My uncle started sitting shiva after the funeral, and we discussed my grandmother’s life. I learned that she played the piano. As we pried additional information from my uncle about her piano playing, he exclaimed, “I remember she played piano in Carnegie hall!” This is an amazing fact for many reasons. First, only minutes before, we had not even known she played piano. Second, my grandmother never had much money and certainly did not own a piano (this was way before anyone could purchase an electronic piano for pocket change). And, finally, if she played in Carnegie hall, this would not have been a fact hidden from the family.

As quickly as my uncle said it, his cousin corrected him: “she did not!” My uncle insisted, following up that perhaps she was a child prodigy and played while young. While we may never know the truth, I tend to believe my cousin. Her explanation was that my father started this rumor when my uncle was very young. If he did, it was very funny. (Isn’t torture of the younger sibling a rite of passage?) Of course, there may be some truth in it. I doubt we’ll ever know. It was a very funny exchange, however.