You’ll probably think I’m pulling your leg or something, but here goes…
Two days ago, we had a large family gathering, the first since Grandma passed away. It did not end well, and here I am now, tasked with cleaning the barbecue grill.
The gathering fell apart shortly after my mother arrived. She was not a fan of Grandma, and every member of the family knows it.
Someone lifted a glass, as in a toast, to the old woman’s memory. That’s when Mom lost it.
“She was nothing but a witch,” she shouted. “A witch, I tell you.”
Mom does not cuss, drink, or smoke, so we all knew what she really meant.
“You’re off your meds,” some shouted back.
Chaos ensued. Now, I’m here alone with my thoughts and memories of Grandma.
Mom was right. Not only was Grandma a bitch, but she was also a real witch.
A Seventh-level Grand Boogens witch, whatever the hell that is, and to prove my point, her dentures are biting the trowel I’m using to clean her ashes from the grill.
“Why won’t she die!” I cried out before remembering that I need to check on her rump roast in the crockpot.