Memorial Day was always a bit traumatic for our little family. Mom found us jobs boxing peonies, (I think we may have been paid in flowers). We would drive to the cemetery, backseat and trunk full of peonies, and spend the day cleaning each departed loved one's tombstone with a trowel, a cloth, and a bucket full of Mama's tears.
All I could do was pull weeds faster and scrub harder, anything to stop reading the names of our beloved fathers, mothers, and friends. I've always hated Memorial Day because it made my mother cry.
Remember me, while I live, shed no tears for my passing, and laugh as much as you can at the thought of me.
Don't waste a minute crying over what might of been, the time we didn't have, or the promises we couldn't keep even to ourselves. Live for the day, breathe deeply, laugh often, and, if you listen closely you may hear an echo of laughter coming back at you.
God does have a sense of humor. It's his sense of justice I occasionally question. I am ready for judgement day, my rebuttal memorized and rehearsed. I plan to give him hell.
Grandma warned him that I'm coming, and, that I expect answers.
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