Well. We’re all home for the funeral. The service. The gathering. To mourn our dearly departed. I’m not sure what I expected. This wasn’t it.
To begin with, the women in my gene pool aren’t exactly what you’d call “night owls.” AuntJ looked like she’d just spent a month with colicky infants when we met at the airport – at the midnight witching hour of 10 p.m. (Granted, that is my bedtime too.) Continue reading