Now We Lay Our Burden Down

He knelt by his dying grandmother's bedside, holding her hand, surrounded by his mother's family. It was Thanksgiving, and she was dying, today. A buffet had been laid out on his aunt's kitchen table; people were picking at desultorily over the course of the day, no one really too keen on chowing down. This was the last time the entire family would ever be in one room. After she died, arguments over rights and responsibilities, possessions and debts, would utterly destroy what was left of this family, leaving it thinly scattered and utterly estranged. His aunt and uncle, without his grandmother's income, could no longer live the lifestyle to which they'd become accustomed, and this grand old house would be sold. Much later, his aunt and uncle would semi-kidnap his sister: but that was another story for another day.

On this day, this sad day, they gathered around, remembering the good times aloud, remembering the bad times inwardly: for there had been many of each. Grandmother had been a mean drunk for many years. She and his grandfather had made and lost a couple of fortunes; he'd died twenty years earlier of a pickled heart. She could be sour and petty, but she could be sly and merry too. Now, he took his turn at her bedside, saying his goodbyes, clasping her hand gently. She had her eyes mostly closed, as if the energy it would take to open them would rob power from her faculties as she marshalled them one last time to say goodbye to everyone. She weakly turned his hand over, and stroked the skin of his palm. "You have such soft hands," she murmured.

"Thank you, Grandma." Trying so hard not to cry.

"That's because you never DO anything, you lazy fuck."

The room, crowded with her children and grandchildren and great-children, exploded with laughter. It lasted a good ten or fifteen minutes.