Back from Virginia . . .

The memorial service for my aunt was nice. Comforting. For everybody, I think. My uncle looked horrible. Gaunt. Out of it. My three male cousins were all a little chubby, and they have bad teeth. Didn't look really clean and "polished," if you will. There were a lot of people I didn't know. And most of them looked (read: were) really old. I drove the whole way there, the whole time there, and the whole way back. And I didn't sleep well, because I shared a room with my father. It rained the whole time we were there. I didn't see sunlight until I got back to Pittsburgh today. My one cousin's girlfriend is from Allison Park. He's a musician. But not really. My other cousin wrote a book about the punk music movement in New York City in the 70s sometime. I thumbed through it. It looked interesting. He wrote a book. And my other cousin works at Radio Shack. He stole pain pills from my aunt and then got addicted to them and then had to got to rehab and then he wasn't allowed to live with his parents anymore. I exchanged cell phone numbers with the oldest cousin who is similar in age to me. He may come to Pittsburgh sometime because he'd really like to tour the Warhol Museum. I said I'd let him stay with me. My aunt died. They had a funeral. And then they had a memorial service. And then there were refreshments in the church's activity room. Cheese and crackers. Little finger sandwiches. Lemonade. Cookies. Lots of people I didn't know. My sister and I stayed close together. A bunch of people commented on how my father looked like his sister. And then we came back.