In the summer of 2012, I went to the cemetery for the first time because my grandpa had died. My mom was super sad, but honestly, I didn’t get why.
Yeah, yeah, she wasn’t gonna see him again, and yeah, he was seven feet under. Deeper than my chances of winning the lottery or my hopes of having a normal family dinner. But hey, we all live to die, right? Like a cockroach on a vegan diet: inevitable and slightly pathetic.
Then she said,
“Son, when life’s music stops, we can’t dance anymore. Your grandpa’s song ended. I know it’s really sad, but he completed his dance.”
That’s when it hit me, why she was so upset.
Apparently, zombies can’t dance.