Speaking of Consolation Prizes

After my Uncle B.’s funeral, my cousin–of the french fry incident–came up to me and asked me to help her carry some of the plants to the car.

“You know,” she said, “I know people mean well, but fuck me, it’s like ‘Sorry your dad died; here’s a plant.’ Like a plant makes up for it.”

And, standing there in the parking lot of the red brick church, each of us with our arms full of big leafy green plants, we looked at each other and laughed until our faces were covered in fresh tears.

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