I went down to Oregon this past weekend to meet up with some family members and to scatter my grandfather's ashes. We scattered his ashes in Florence, Oregon; the same beach where my aunt's ashes were scattered a few years ago after her battle with cancer ended. It was a powerful trip, dealing with the finality of performing the last physical act of saying goodbye. From start to finish, I can't think of many ways in which it could have been more perfect. I got to see a couple of cousins I hadn't seen since I was a teenager and they were kids. The weather was great. It was nice spending time with my family again. In particular, my grandmother was quite the sassmastress during the trip. She was pumping out the one-liners like nobody's business. But I think the best story my aunt relayed to me later when my grandmother started asking about my friend P. who drove down with me to keep me company (because my friends are amazing like that):
Grandmother: Is that her boyfriend?
Aunt: No mom, P. is gay.
Grandmother: Oh. (Pause) Does that mean he likes to laugh a lot?
