I think I’m in the Preakness Library. Or somewhere similar perhaps. Somewhere in Jersey, the grand ‘ol state of Chris Christie. But that’s besides the point, and many of you would turn your heads and ask others, “Was the Christie comment sarcasm…or was she being earnest?” Anyways, time to cut the bullshit short.
I think I’m in the Preakness Library. Surrounding me are newspapers, magazines, books, and Patricia Cornwell. Not sure where she fits. Papa and Mom are searching for a DVD to rent for the evening’s activity, possibly The Music Man. We’re not sure.
I think I’m in the Preakness Library, but that’s not what I want to talk about.
I think I’m in the Preakness Library, but what I really want is something more casual, say, a kibbutz over yesterday’s lunch at the Park West Diner? Or maybe a recap of the cemetery visit. Or then there’s always the retirement party at Spectrum that we went to for my deceased uncle’s helper. Regardless, I have a lot to say, and none of it has anything to do with the Preakness Library.
I’m sitting at the table in the corner. Not the corner, but it feels like that. There’s a chair beside me, but I’m all alone, in a library…and I like it. Because here I can contemplate. Here I can ruminate, about life, about death, about all things poser-esque. And try not to sound too lame. So let me recap my day yesterday. I’ll welcome you to my table, I guess. Only one seat left! Enjoy a day in the life of a Jersey Girl.
First was the cemetery. Actually, it was the drive to the cemetery. I didn’t know how I was supposed to feel: sad, callous, pensive, head held high or head held low. All I knew was, it was difficult to engage in conversation with my grandparents and mom during the car ride.
Now you’re probably wondering why we were driving to the cemetery on a Tuesday or Wednesday or Thursday afternoon. To be honest, I wasn’t sure what day it was myself. The reason is that we were visiting the gravestone of my deceased uncle, Glenn.
Sometimes I equate my mom with Mercutio. She’s there to provide comic relief. After warning everyone to beware the scranky scrabbly no good very bad sidewalk, she’s the one who tripped. I’m not sure how I felt when we were actually there. I don’t think visiting a gravestone means much. I think visiting his group home means a hell of a lot more. There I saw the people whose lives he touched. There I saw the smiles on their faces when we entered, as if we were Perez Hilton. Or better.
I guess I’m going to call it quits here because when I write about death it gets corny and emotional and there goes my parallel structure. Adios!