It's "that" time of year again.
When I reserved this date, my plan to write about the holidays, which are always difficult for people who are grieving. Remembering our departed loved ones always puts the bitter in "bittersweet" at this crazy, stressful, celebratory time.
I decided to take a different route this week, however. Instead of the holiday memories, what I have been thinking about are those times with grandparents and my mom, hearing the stories of crazy things they did, or amazing things that happened to them or to their parents and grandparents. Who can remember them all? How can we know if the version we pass down is in any way similar to what actually happened? Why are the stories what we remember, when the memory of faces or voices fades over the years?
I went to a funeral recently, and while there were the usual tearful eulogies, eventually the three brothers of the deceased got up to speak, each in his turn. What made their words so much more poignant for me is that they didn't just talk about what a great guy my friend was. Instead, they each told a funny story or two from their childhood. For me, the sharing of these memories were the absolute best way they could have celebrated my friend's life.
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