watching your parent’s age is like watching yourself die. I can’t imagine losing them, yet, I’ve killed them in my head a long time ago. My mother taught me about death as a kid, she sat me down one day and looked me in the eye, real serious and said…

“I’m not gonna be around forever you know, I’m gonna die one day and you’ll continue living. It won’t be the end of the world, just the end of me.”
Then one day, when I was sixteen, I came home stoned and hungry hoping I’d have the kitchen to myself, and I saw this man. He was dressed in a black suit, real professional-like this man, and he stopped yapping when he saw me. My mother told me to sit down.
“We’re buying our plots.” she said nonchalantly.
“We’re gonna go pick out our coffins right now, we were hoping you’d be home in time.”
I put on my coat and there we were, in a straight line waiting to be picked up by the black-suited-man in his van. I wanted a cigarette so bad then.
We didn’t drive far.
I hadn’t realized that we lived so close to coffin vendors. I had passed them right by.

How?
It was December of 1996 I believe. It was cold for California and the time change made it dark by 6 p.m.
There weren’t many coffins to choose from but I managed to pick one that was fairly decent and was lined with what looked like purple cloth.
My parents got matching ones.
Typical.
The “transaction” was easy and we were dropped off 45 minutes later.

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