Back in good ol’ rainy, gloomy, Portland, where the only tamales to be had are at the kinda skeezy cart near the Central Library (no, I haven’t broken down yet and purchased some from them, more out of a sense of duty to my g.i. tract than anything else).
So, yeah, where to begin? The trip home had good points, sure enough, but there was also the fact my grandmother was in a coma from the 16th to the 18th, but according to her own words, she “put on a good enough show” on the 19th that they sprung her from the hospital on the 20th and she showed up at the family gathering on the 24th. And my other grandfather went seven rounds with his dementia on the 25th and wound up cussing out my shocked and appalled auntie, who’d been in rather deep denial about his worsening mental state until that point.
All that pales in comparison to C’s story, though. She’s a friend of the family, and she visited with us for a couple of hours on the 24th before leaving to pick up her son G for lunch. She called my mother half an hour after she left because G was dead. Mom dropped everything and drove down the Mountain, leaving me as de facto hostess in a house where I have trouble locating water glasses, let alone all the accoutrements for Christmas Dinner.
And once again I curse CSI and NCIS and Criminal Minds and all those shows because we have to wait six weeks for toxicology reports, to know whether or not this will be treated as a suicide or a homicide.
I’ve got nothing to end on.