Please God

So my nan died.
Yeah, I know.
On her 90th birthday we had an 'open house' at our place.
Like you'd hold for The Stanley Cup, or The Mona Lisa.
Colin and I joked at the time that she was like the godfather (yeah, that one).
Because she just sat in her chair.
And all of these people we'd never seen would kneel in front of her.
Whispering things. Offering her gifts.
And she would nod and say, "Si, si."

People always said that she had the most amazing memory.
Which I didn't clue into until it was becomming too late.
Typical.
Once she told me a story about dad losing his tam.
Whatever the hell that is.
I guess it's a hat.
And dad was only three or four at the time.
I found the story fascinating because it was about my dad.
And he was three or four.

When I was old enough to drive we'd visit.
Because I'd have to drive to her neck of the woods to get the Coke in the glass bottles.
I used to warn the others that she might offer them money.
In which case they may as well accept it.
I used to always say, "Me and you are gonna take this money and go on the beer now."
I also used to hug her and say, "You know, I believe you're gettin' taller."
She liked that one.

She always said that she hoped to "be around next year, please God."
But when she said it, it always sort of sounded like "plaise God."
And as a kid I didn't know what that meant.
Turns out 'plaise God' meant nothing.
Nan just had a really thick accent.

She taught me to appreciate creamed corn.
And when I told her that I kissed Natalie Webber that time when we were five, she didn't tell anybody.
I'm really not good with death.
Seinfeld said the number one fear among people is public speaking.
Number two is death.
"Death...is number two?!
That means that at the funeral you'd rather be in the casket than giving the eulogy."
I have no problem with public speaking.
The shitty thing about death is that you go from appreciating to remembering.
And I suck at that, too.