The pet cemetery where Speck and Don are buried isn’t exactly conveniently located, but we try to get out there as much as we can with bouquets of flowers, because I just can’t bear the thought of them thinking we’ve forgotten them. And laying flowers on their graves really makes me feel a little bit more at peace.
We have to go back up with a Sharpie because Speck’s name is wearing off her temporary grave marker. Next year, both burial plots will be ready for real, fancy plaques. (Henry is off somewhere as I type this, psychically cringing at the cost.)
I’ve always been obsessed with death. My pappap dying in ’96 really fucked me up good, as evidenced by the way my life spiraled and snowballed out of control after that, leading up to my eventual decision to drop out of high school. I spend more time in cemeteries than most people, even celebrating Christmas there every year, and I once strongly considered going into mortuary science. (I even toured the school and still think about doing this often.)
I know, it’s surprising I’m not Goth. But I never really felt the need to “look” the part, I guess.
Speck and Don dying five months apart from each other has really made me hit rock bottom. I’m even more obsessed with death and old funeral home paraphernalia and have been decorating our future home around this morbid fascination and also the old wheelchair thing, which seems to complement the other beautifully. I’ve been buying post-mortem pictures and old photos of handicapped people on eBay. I might be losing it, I don’t know, but it has been distracting me from how much I hate our current home and it’s been keeping me sort of calm, so Henry just keeps his mouth shut. There are just too many memories here and I want out. And somehow my subconscious has decided that my next house needs to be decorated with other people’s memories, if that makes sense.
I don’t really know what is happening.