@kottke@mastodon.social @CosmicTraveler@mastodon.social I didn’t cry when my great uncle was hospitalized, or when he deteriorated, or after his stroke, or when he died, or when I picked up his cremated remains. I didn’t cry when I picked up my grandmother to accompany her to her brother’s funeral. I didn’t cry at the funeral, even when there were some nice words spoken about him. The minute the last shovel of dirt was on his grave, I broke down into the biggest, ugliest cry, probably of my life up until that point. The man I had *always* known was gone, and I’d done everything I could to make his hospitalization, decline, death, and internment go as smoothly and comfortably as possible.