Spoons, Stairs, and Tennis
In my family, there are exactly two kinds of death. The one you talk about, and the one you don’t.
If someone my age talked about death the way my grandma does, I’d consider them clinically depressed. When she mentions moving to the cemetery, I take another sip of her cranberry juice and think: “Grandma’s funny like that — always thinking about death.” For keeping up appearances, it’s probably a good thing I can think without moving my lips. Or vocal cords.