But for some reason I felt compelled to wear a black skirt with black heels for Daisy's viewing day, which comprised of one afternoon and one evening show. I say "show" because when I think about it now, for some reason we should have had some balloon races or a magician. Instead, we had photo montages and pregnancy banter since a handful of attendees were sporting baby bumps - children who would never experience her pancakes or Duck Pond triumphs. I was fine with the standard socializing and grieving that is part of the process of a loved one's departure from...whatever the heck we can call this plain of existence nowadays.
When my great-grandmother died in 1993, I was too young to recognize how different wakes and funerals are. Don't get me wrong by saying this, and keep in mind I have limited experience with death, but wakes seem to be a bit enjoyable, almost fun. Wakes are one of the few times where you can laugh raucously, cry slovenly, and look fantastic all at the same time. The reason you look fantastic is because you don't have to give a shit. You could grow mushrooms in your pits and smell like a ferret. Who cares? You have come nose to nose with this thing called mortality. Something you never think about until someone dies. Someone you made yourself believe was Zeus or Hera.
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