My great aunt died this morning.
And now I'm sitting on the couch we inherited from my grandmother, her sister, next to our old cat--who might be 13, or 14, or 15, but definitely old--and not quite crying. Because no matter how much I might want them to, death and aging are never going to go away, and I don't really like change all that much. I don't cope well with it. I know some people love it, but all I really want to do is get settled into my peaceful little bubble of routine--the same people, the same places, the same things--and stay there.
It's a good couch, and I like it (even though it has rather unfortunate pink-and-blue chenille upholstery), but right now I almost wish we didn't have it. Having it means that Mamaw is dead--and Papaw, and Buba, and Gene--and that they are never coming back.
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