Page 116 of What I Like About You

BookCon@thebookcon 1hr

We are SO EXCITED to announce the fantastic lineup of our very first Bloggers IRL panel:@BooksOnTape,@LilahClarkRead, @OneTruePastry,@AnnalieseWritesYA, @MGPete,

@IambicPentara.

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Elle Carter@ellewriteswords 45min

WHAT. CC @AmysBookshelf @s_lee244 @Nash_Stevens27 PLEASE CONFIRM I AM NOT HALLUCINATING. HOW CAN A GHOST BE ON A PANEL? I’M SHOOK.

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Amy Chen@AmysBookshelf 40min

… you are definitely not?! this is WILD.

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Samira Lee@s_lee244 37min

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Nash Stevens@Nash_Stevens27

mI thought I’d never be more confused. I was wrong.

TWENTY

If Grams were still here, she’d be laughing so hard.

I’d tell her everything, the whole Nash situation, and she’d become the laughing tears emoji.

Not everything has to be this hard,she’d say.

I can still hear her voice, her laugh.

How has it been almost a year since we lost her?

It’s a quiet ride to Stamford, to the Jewish cemetery where Grams is buried. Rabbi Goldman would saylaid to rest, but I hate that phrase. Rest is a temporary action. Grams is stuck at the Stamford Jewish Cemetery forever.

Breathe.

I did not want to do this.

Cemeteries are the worst. The necklace that rests against my beating heart is more Grams than a plaque with her name on it and her decomposing body six feet under. I haven’t been to a cemetery since my uncle’s funeral, which triggered my first panic attack. So I can’t understand how doing this is going tohelp anything. It’s going to be horrible.

Ollie said we had to do this for Gramps. Gramps’s voice broke when he asked us if we would come. And it’s not just a trip to the cemetery—it’s the unveiling ceremony, a Jewish custom. It’s a small ceremony that occurs usually in the final months of the first year of mourning. Gramps says we’ll say some prayers and the headstone with Grams’s name on it will be unveiled.

How could we say no?

The minute I step out of the car, I wish Ihad. Tears start to fill my eyes and we haven’t even left the parking lot. Spring emerges in a vision of cherry trees in bloom and freshly planted tulips. It’d be pretty if this weren’t so terrible. Cemeteries shouldn’t be beautiful.

We follow Gramps uphill toward the grounds where the rabbi will be conducting the ceremony. I fixate on the yellow and purple bouquet in his hand. He replaces her flowers every week, a Sunday morning ritual. Most grandpas read the newspaper. Mine goes to the cemetery. Today he leaves his fifty-second bouquet.

It scares me, loving someone that much.

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