Thesis: Opening Monologue

I hate funerals.

Not in the way that other people hate funerals. No, these people don't really hate funerals. They just hate death. I think because they fear it so much. So they cry and weep and mourn, but really what they're thinking about is their own mortality. I can't imagine anyone wanting to cause someone else that much grief.

Grandpa's funeral was the worst. Gran's was pretty bad too but at least Grandpa was there to liven the mood. Told me he couldn't stand to see the way people felt sorry for themselves, when all Gran wanted was to make the people she loved happy. So Grandpa told jokes. Knock-knock jokes, he said those were always Gran's favorite. I think that was the only time I saw Grandpa cry. I knew he was happy though, because she wanted him to be. People said he lost it that day, but I knew better.

I loved Grandpa's jokes, almost as much as Gran did. Some were simple, like the knock-knock jokes; those were the ones Gran loved. Sometimes he'd have me pull his finger; Gran didn't like that one so much. But some were long and elaborate, and Grandpa always knew how to drag it out until it was the perfect moment to deliver the punchline. These were always my favorite. They were like the bedtime stories my parents told me when I was very young. They took me to another world, and I was always excited to be there. When I got older he would tell me dirty jokes, and tell me not to repeat any of them to my parents or Gran, or they'd scold him. After Gran died, Grandpa started going to the amatuer hour at the comedy club. Everyone else told Grandpa he was crazy, but I always went, and I always laughed at his jokes. The other people didn't like it very much, but he wasn't telling the jokes for them. It was always for Gran.

When Grandpa died, everyone said it was because of a broken heart, but I knew that his heart was just fine. He was old, and he was tired of telling jokes to us. He was happy, because he knew he was going to be with Gran again, and I was happy for him when he passed. Oh, of course I cried. I cried a lot. But I never forgot that Grandpa was happiest when he was making me laugh. So I sat in the back of the service, and I brought a pen and some paper, and I started writing down all of Grandpa's jokes that I could remember. Even when Aunt Claire smacked me upside the head for laughing, I didn't mind. There was no way she could understand. She was always calling him crazy when he wasn't around. I felt sorry for Grandpa, but he always said he was too old to give a crap about what everyone else thought. I miss my Grandpa a lot, and every time I come up with a new joke I dedicate it to him and Gran.

But this funeral is so different. When Gran and Granpda died, it was their time. They were old. She was my age. She was my best friend. She always told the best jokes too; some were even better than Grandpa's. But try as I might, I can't remember any of them. It's awful. I can't stop crying. I can't stop trying to make sense of it. Why would she do that to herself? Why would she do that to me?

Death. She did always have a morbid sense of humor. I always thought she was joking. She was fascinated with the unknown. She loved learning; I never saw her without a book of some kind. But what fascinated her the most was death. She wondered what it would be like... always asked who got it right. If anyone got it right. She liked to play this game, Three Wishes. She'd ask me what I'd wish for if I had three wishes, and then make me ask her.

I want to remember the jokes she'd used to tell; the smart ones that I had to think about the get, the silly ones that always had us rolling on the floor laughing, even the lame puns that were always the funniest no matter how awful they got. But nothing. All I can think about is that stupid game. Is she happy now? Is she still sad?

I cant get her voice out of my head; that ridiculous voice she'd always use when she'd play the game. "And for your first wish?"

And for my first wish?

I wish to know what death is like.