Ten minutes to write. Less time to read.

Tonight Earl and I attended the wake of a young man, 31 years old and married only seven weeks.   He is the grandson of a good friend, and he died unexpectedly in an accident. Who at my age expects to bury a grandchild?

The funeral home was filled with mourners:  family members from near and far, friends of the parents and grandparents, friends of the young man and his new bride.

As we left the funeral home, Earl asked if I wanted to have a bite to eat.  At first, I said “No, I have to go home; I have things to do.”  But the more I thought ( in a split second of time), it seemed processing what we’d just been through was more important than any of those things waiting at home.

So we went to the Navajo for dinner and relished being together.  Talked about our friend and her loss.  Imagined what it would be like to lose a family member younger than we are. Even talked about losing each other.

There’s no denying it; we’re all brought up short when something happens to someone in our family circle.  Young, old, it doesn’t matter.