Anger.

The first time I met Wes, the love of my mother’s life, we were at a funeral home.

“Nice to meet you,” I said, not at all meaning it.

My internal dialogue went something like this: Nice to meet you? Are you fucking serious, Lauren? What are you even saying? You are meeting under the most horrific circumstances possible. Fuck you, Universe. Fuck you. This is not how it was supposed to go. You couldn’t wait 14 goddamn more days before killing my mother?

I was supposed to meet Wes in FOURTEEN days. Not like this.

The funeral home director – who gave me bad vibes – went back to asking us questions. Stupid fucking questions. Do you think I have a care in the world what fucking flowers we pick?

“Can we just bring in our own?” I asked. “She wouldn’t want us spending money on this, any of this. We can pluck some from a field or buy some from Kroger for $6.00.”

Trust me, I know I was the funeral director’s least favorite client, because I kept assuring him we’d be picking “whatever is cheapest” in his binder the size of Texas.

Admittedly, this blog was meant to be about Wes. I had intentions of writing a romantic blog. Clearly, as I began to write, I have a lot of anger still left to process, that I will probably be processing all my life.

It’s expensive to die. Even when you pick every cheapest option in the Death Binder, it’s expensive as fuck to die. And I am not an idiot – funeral homes are businesses too. They are in the business of grief, and I was in no mood to have my grief monetized.

I am not going to taint Mom and Wes’ love story with my anger. But for whatever reason, I feel it important to publish this blog. I’ll write the real “Story of Wes Part 3” when my anger is more subdued.