TITLE: Here Comes the Sun
I don't know much about flying. The last flight I went on was back when I was ten and forced to go to my great grandmother's funeral in Ohio. I say forced, because number one, I'd never met the woman before. I mean, I had heard about her. My mom was the epitome of a disappointment in her family, so of course I heard non-stop about the grouchy old witch who thought her granddaughter was a slut. Not that having a child at a young age means you're a slut or anything, but my grandma and great-grandmother – apparently - were not too supportive of my mom's bulging belly before her nineteenth birthday.
So even though my mom shed a single tear to commemorate the few good times she could remember, she was still upset with me because the news of my great-grandmother's passing did little besides pull me away from a good book. Because really, how could I mourn a woman I had never met, especially at such a young age?
And number two, the funeral was scheduled during our first official trip to Disneyland as a family of two. We used to have this tin coffee can on top of our fridge with a little label with Disneyland Fund written in thick, black penmanship. And every day when my mom came home from work, she'd filter through her wallet and the bottom of her purse, and throw any loose change or dollars in there.