Everybody grieves in their own way. My dad and I both took sick days last week. I used mine to sleep and read; he used his to buy a shitload of meat from a door-to-door salesman. Like, he practically bought a cow, except it’s a cow made of beef, steak, chicken, cooked and uncooked shrimp, and maybe some fish parts. My parents’ freezer is jam-packed with more meat than they can ever possibly eat, especially since neither of my parents cook ever. Nobody knows why he did this, including Dad. “But I got a real good deal,” Dad said. “I got about $100 worth of meat for 165 dollars.”
In a previous life, my dad’s grieving process probably would have involved lots of alcohol. The drinking has passed, but the urge to binge obviously has not. I can understand this, since my grief process was less meaty but still pretty much an unexplainable binge: I re-read 13 Stephanie Plum books in 10 days. That’s about 4000 pages of ridiculousness, as far-removed from my own life as anything could possibly be, so I guess that’s the explanation. It was the literary equivalent of going to my happy place. Me reading is not all that weird; neither is me re-reading the Plum books (I pretty much have the first six memorized), but the fact that I started the day grandpa died and ended yesterday, his 88th birthday, is not lost on me.