Grief on other people always looks so refined, so beautiful in spite of the pain. On me, it always seems to look like this:
1) In my going-to-church underwear and a bathrobe, washing dishes that easily could’ve waited until after Grandpa’s funeral today, but needing to do something with the nervous energy and unexpected extra time.
2) In a black dress and heels, checking out of Target with my one purchase (waterproof mascara), and thinking, “Grandpa probably never even heard of waterproof mascara” and “I suck. Everyone totally knows where I must be going, and they’re wondering how I didn’t think of this sooner.”
3) Twisting my hands together, reminding myself to hold back the nervous laughter that seems to be my calling card.
4) Alternating between being glad that I stopped for the mascara, since at least now I’m just red and splotchy and not red and splotchy and black-streaked, and being mad at myself for being so abominably vain.
5) Hoping Grandpa could hear all the wonderful things that were said about him today, because they were all true.
He’ll be buried tomorrow at Fort Snelling. At least I already have the mascara.