In order to die, one first must live.

There's been a lot of death this week. A second cousin of mine died this week. Even though I had never met her, I still attended the funeral. It was a very different service than other funerals I have attended (which isn't very many). This was the first strongly religious funeral I have attended. A lot of my extended family is Catholic, and this funeral had a strong dose of Catholicism mixed in, including the ever awkward communion, in which I remain in my pew while the rest of the church gets up and eats Jesus and share germs. Although it'd look silly if they drank Jesus' blood from little Dixie Cups. The priest was wearing Crocs, though, so the whole ceremony was a little less serious than it should have been for me. It was a very nice funeral, if a little offensive to people with disabilities at times (Mary was a developmentally disabled person, in case you were wondering why that subject would be brought up). Apparently my family hadn't seen this side of the family in 40 years, and people did not recognize or, in some cases, remember my mom or aunt. I met relatives I had never met before, though, which is always interesting and nice.
Also, Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson died, both on the day of the funeral. While I have never watched the original Charlie's Angels, she was still a cultural icon who will forever be remembered. Michael Jackson, on the other hand, has always been a part of my life. My mom is a huge Michael Jackson fan, and so I grew up listening to him. On Saturday mornings, his music filled my dreams as I slept in while my mother cleaned the house. I remember as a small child running around the house naked dancing like him, or trying to, anyway. My brother was reaching "that age" when one grows embarrassed by nude family members and yelled at me to put some clothes on. Party pooper. He wrote a lot of songs that I really enjoy.
I hope your lives were amazing, Mary, Farrah and Michael.