Another great aunt slipped away on me this week. For the third time in Blake's short life, we've been called to attend an afternoon funeral at Ward's on Weston Road. Yesterday was the visitation and Blake distinguished himself by ripping through the home like a tornado. First he took a much-needed mid-Easter nap on a couch in the lounge. When he woke up he clung to me like a lemur until he got his bearings, ignoring my mother's increasingly frustrated attempts to show off his prodigious vocabulary. Once his little white-shod feet hit the ground, however, it was all over. He raced around the little parlour, tugging at Kleenex boxes (which he calls "stoppit" in honour of my mother's oft-repeated command to stop pulling tissues out of the box), drooling on glass-covered tables, and breaking out of the room as often as possible. I continually joked that he was about to join mourning already in progress, but he was far more interested in empty parlours than in weeping strangers. The small platform for displaying coffins was fascinating; he took to calling it "goes" after I told him "this is where the coffin goes." He was a busy little bee and he kept me racing through that funeral home like the devil was at my heels.

Our morning was spent at church: a sunrise service with a pajama-clad Blake (Parishioner: "I want to come to church in my pajamas." Me: "There's still time,") followed by a packed Easter service at the regular hour. I like the energy of Easter morning, but I do wish we didn't attract so many obviously bored family members. It's deeply ironic that on the day when the most profound mystery of the faith is revealed, we're packed full-up with the detached & cynical. That's what I get for subscribing to the religion of the oppressors, I suppose.

Our Easter dinner was spent with my grandmother, who was at her hyper-abrasive best in honour of her sister's passing. I don't know if it's living with my parents or having a child, but she really, really gets to me in a way that few people do. Everyone changes around her, and I don't like the people they all become. Being in her house is an exercise in biting my tongue. I'm starting to wonder if I can't get a relaxed sibling dinner in place for next Christmas: just Pixie, Scout, various partners & the possibility of Nic. I can pretend it's in honour of Pixie's triumphant return to Toronto! We can pass the buck to everyone else like a sleepover party and no one outside the circle will feel offended. At least, that's the idea.

I have to do something, though. My tongue is getting scarred.

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- Rocketbride's adventure of 3/28/2005 08:32:00 p.m.