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It is eight forty-two at night. The house is quiet. There is a spool of leather lace on the desk in front of me; I feel the need to pick at the sticker on the spool and pick it up.

Googly eyes spill out in a small clatter.

I break into uproarious laughter.

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There was this one thing my grandmum said about winter, when I was at her house, a couple days ago. My parents were talking to her about the early winter we're having, and she told us it had been nice until a couple weeks ago. "And then it just came down. Like a curtain," she said.

I think that quote will stick with me for a while. I hope. Maybe by writing it here, it can stay longer.

My dad couldn't handle himself, today. Last night was probably the last time he'll see his mother alive. He wouldn't eat breakfast and drove recklessly the entire way to the airport, where he found problems to curse at.

I can't blame him, but at the same time, he put my and MY mum in danger.

That's just not right.

But then I couldn't yell at him.

And then I started thinking about the difference between how we take death and how other cultures take it. I really wish I'd been raised with the mindset that this isn't the end.

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