“Nobody just dies in the winter,” Mrs. Joyce Thionnet, my eighth grade English teacher once told me. “When an author talks about winter it’s a metaphor for death. The trees are dead. Snow is still and silent. Death is cold.”

“But what if the person in the story just happened to die in the winter? Like, coincidentally?” I asked.

“There are no coincidences in fiction,” she said. “In fiction, winter equals death. Period.”

—

“I put a shovel in the back of the truck in case you guys hit snow on the way to Chicago,” Susan said Thursday night. Forcasters were predicting a little snow in Joplin on Friday and a lot of snow in St. Louis. We didn’t bring any kitty litter to throw under the tires for traction, but in St. Louis there’s always White Castles.

Early Friday morning mom drove to dad’s house and the two of them drove to my house. By 6 A.M. I had mom and dad, their luggage, Morgan, and the shovel packed into the truck and ready to head north. 800 miles to Chicago on Friday, grandma’s funeral on Saturday, 800 miles home on Sunday.

When we pulled out of my driveway the temperature was 42 degrees. Within a couple of hours it was 36 degrees and suddenly it was 26 degrees. When we stopped for lunch it had dropped to 17. Eventually the digital thermometer just began displaying “ICE” randomly instead of the temperature. We never saw the sun on Friday, but we didn’t see any ice on the roads or snow falling either. Someone said the high in Chicago on Friday was 3 degrees. I believe it.

—

I’ve been to Tews Funeral Home in Homewood, Illinois twice now. I was there on my 40th birthday for my Uncle Joe’s funeral and I was there this past weekend for Grandma O’Hara’s. I’m 41 now. I remember the layout of Tews and I don’t care for the feeling. I know I’ll probably end up going there a few more times. I don’t want to think about that right now.

Susan and Mason are not in Chicago. Mason’s YMCA basketball team got invited to the state finals. Nobody wants him to miss the game and everybody wishes they could be there. By the time we arrive at the funeral home on Saturday Mason’s team has already won their first two games of the day. Susan promises to stop texting me scores. I ask her to please keep sending them.

The feeling is different today than at Joe’s funeral. My Uncle Joe died suddenly, unexpectedly. My grandma was 85 and had been suffering from Alzheimer’s for a few years now. Only seeing her once or twice a year, the change between visits was dramatic. It was entertaining to watch her search for her cane while she was holding it. It was scary to watch her try to answer a potato while her phone was ringing. It was heartbreaking to visit her after she didn’t know who I was anymore.

—

At least half a dozen people at the funeral home mistook me for my dad. “Sorry about your mother,” they would tell me. I corrected the first couple and then simply started saying “thanks” and shaking people’s hands.

I wore my black suit with a dark blue shirt and a purple tie — grandma’s favorite color. Morgan wore a pretty dress and one of grandma’s necklaces that matched.

At my Grandma McKracken’s funeral, a decade ago now, I remember looking around the room and thinking to myself that this was the last time I would ever see most of these people. I was right. The room was filled with peripheral relatives that I likely would never run into anywhere else.

I had the same feeling this past Saturday. I shook many hands and when I said “hello” I knew in many cases I was saying “goodbye.”

The service after the wake was short. A friend of the family did a short reading. We sang a song. My Aunt Linda said a few words. Then we walked by the casket and said goodbye to Grandma O’Hara. Lots of people said she didn’t look like herself. I tried not to stare.

I didn’t cry until Morgan started it.

At the end of the service, my phone buzzed and I peeked at the screen. Mason’s team had won two more games and was heading to the finals.

—

Dinner after the service was at the Warsaw Inn. It’s a Polish buffet, one of grandma’s favorites. When we arrived at 5 P.M customers were leaving the restaurant, complaining that they had been waiting over an hour for a table and couldn’t get in. Fortunately, we had a reservation.

“O’Hara, party of 75.”

I ate Polish sausage, sauerkraut, potato pancakes, blintzes, pierogies (cheese and meat), pastries, and a salad. While not my first time here, this is the only Polish buffet I’ve ever been to. It’s the first time I’ve been here without grandma. It is most likely the last time I will ever be here. I have an extra pierogi before leaving.

I hug the waitress goodbye. She has no idea why.

—

After that, the evening’s a blur. Normally I’d have partaken in a bit of Crown Royal but I was exhausted from the drive up the day before and couldn’t do the drive home with a hangover. I spent a couple of hours upstairs talking with my Uncle Buddy. He and my Aunt Linda (who live upstairs from my grandma) plan on moving downstairs soon and renting their place out. Other people were downstairs, going through old photos and keepsakes.

Grandma’s dog Squirt wandered the house, looking for grandma I presume.

I got a text from Susan. Mason’s team won the tournament and were named the 2014-2015 YMCA 12 and Under Champions.

—

We left Chicago Sunday morning and put another 800 miles on the Avalanche. The temperature got up to 24 degrees and stayed there for most of the day. I drank three or four cups of coffee and three or four Monster energy drinks on the way home. There was snow on the ground beginning in Chicago and the entire way home. In Joplin, Missouri, we hit our first snow flurry — none of it stuck, but it enough to keep us pushing forward. As people throughout the midwest were wishing for snow to fall we had our fingers crossed the weather would hold out for just a few more hours.

It was cold the entire ride home.

It’s a little colder this morning.

Touche, Mrs. Thionnet.