At 25.
I have stepped up my game, made some minuscule moves to further my career in this music life, and sadly been bestowed (with what my family calls an honor) the opportunity to read a poem at grandmothers funeral. I am a performer. Getting in front of my family and sharing words on the behalf of late grandmother is haunting me. I don't know what to say. I don't know where to start. She is 90 going on the big 9-1. With so many elders, why me ? I am not one who understands this pleasure, being that my profession as a wordsmith mixed with my views on religion has deemed me somewhat an outcast. As the tears drop from my face, a memory of the string soft spoken women comes to my face saying she loves me for what I choose. The rest of my familia is not the same. While I'm sure I can express this still judgement will be thrown like a fastball from randy Johnson. Sleep is a thought often no where around. It's as if on this eternal nap she is borrowing mine to compensate for the lack of sleep she endured wether it be hours lost to a crying child,rebellious teenager, dogs rather pets of grandkids,or late-night care taker who locked himself out trying to smoke a J. Yet, as in writing this how is the question. How can I share my moments and expect them to be superb for the congregation. In all honesty I wouldn't care. The fact that they do and don't know why is what's worse.