unpacking death: old people die

After Robin Harris and Robin the neighbor (interesting, I never noticed the same names), I don’t remember any deaths for awhile.

I know that my great grandmother died at some point when we were back on the East Coast. She was old in my memory of visiting her out in the country on clay roads in her wheelchair and spitting in a cup (which I thought was fucking disgusting) and smelling like...oldness.., so I know she was old when she died. I also don’t remember going to her funeral. Maybe she died when we were out West. I wouldn’t know the difference.

I remember my father, with my mother sometimes accompanying him, went up North several times for funerals. It was always a big event — like a family reunion — to which I was never invited. Not that I wanted to go. I never knew these family members anyway. They were old people who I likely hadn’t seen since I was a newborn. I didn’t care that they died and my father never seemed particularly moved by any of it.

No one ever died in my mom’s family. And no one that I was familiar with ever died in my dad’s family. Everyone was young, vibrant, and sexy as far as I was concerned. No one was even sick or sickly (minus mental health issues for a couple of folks). There were no accidents nor any tragic deaths.

Therefore, I concluded that although comedians die, and random folk get headaches that kill them, family and loved ones only die when they are old. Old people die when they are super old. Young people live. And based on what I saw, I was going to live forever.

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