Let's get ramblin'
Trays of quiche and trays of lasagna: this is how I first dealt with death. My mother's father died sometime in April during my seventh grade year. And my father's father died the following April. There was no grieving period for me. I didn't get to know either of them. They were also bastards. Both with side-families with their mistresses. But all I can remember were the trays of quiche and trays of lasagna that I'd eaten for weeks during those deaths. I remember thinking that I could eat those foods to my life's end. And I still feel that way. Just the other day, I found myself attached by the hip with my tray of lasagna. I ate the entire fucking thing. And when I finished, I wanted more. No doubts, no regrets. My mind has been so distracted lately that all I can manage to write about is how I indulged in trays of quiche and trays of lasagna as a grieving method during the death of both my grandfathers.
What trepidations an idly hysteric mind brings.
