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Christians believe death is a celebration. As a catholic I know it as a sacrament, and having lost my brother five years ago, a reality. My wife lost her grandmother yesterday — ninety-three full years ended on a cold sunny day.

She died on the morning of Saint Patrick’s Day. Her offspring mused that their father could not bear to spend another feast day alone and had called her home — I knew in my heart she would go on this day. The incredulous component: I knew. We all did.

Many came to pay their respects during the wake on Monday. I felt oddly out of place. I had not been in this kind of situation since my brother’s death — my actions during that time were automatic, almost natural and now I felt discomfort and a compulsion to hide myself. I thought it odd that my experience could differ in such vast and disturbing ways. I should know what to say, how to comfort, how to empathise; I feel I came up empty and cool far too often. I have no explanation for my reaction and am unwilling to speculate. I miss Grandma Sully. I miss my brother. This is enough for me.

I will spare you the details of the burial mass as it is an experience which I selfishly protect. It belongs to each who mourn — find your own sorrows if you must.

Grandma Sully is a gift.

I refuse to use the past tense.

While waiting at the gate for my flight to Chicago, I happened to witness the most egregious display of hillbilly social ineptitude imaginable. The gate next to ours was outbound to Houston, and it showed. The usual throngs of neat and durable business people were mixed with toothless, mullet bedecked passengers doing what passengers do best: waiting. Most passed the time in ordinary ways: listening to music, reading, eating, sharing a spot of light conversation. As we surveyed the gate my wife and I were both transfixed by the same victorian sensibility shocking behavior: a man leafing through a copy of Playboy. I admit that I was impressed; it takes enormous brass balls to plop down at your gate, snap into a Slim Jim, and unfurl the Playboy centerfold. As we stared in disbelief, a pair of young women in close proximity to our antagonist expressed their displeasure in an audible and obvious way. In his defense, the man simply stated that the news stand had run out of Sports Illustrated. What else was he to do?