Everyone Thinks My Gran And Gram Died Of ‘Old Age’ But I Think Something Much Darker Was The Cause
Like Gram and Gran’s deaths, I now had horrifying concerns about the people I was sharing my life with who were listening to old Bob Dylan records in the kitchen and probably already five drinks in.
By 
Jack Follman
My cool was kept throughout the entire process of making the pie and getting it into the oven and a bathroom break by my mother as soon as the pie was in the oven provided me with the cover I needed to check on the snow globe. Though that may have been a bad idea.
Another new scene greeted me when I strolled up to the tree while waiting for the sound of my mom’s flush from the bathroom to send me back to the kitchen in a sprint to pretend like I hadn’t moved from the new cookie project we were launching. Waiting for me in the glass of the globe was the cold, dark setting of the basement.
Planted in the middle of the basement was my mom and step-dad, hunched over shovels in a waist-high hole in the dirt floor of the basement, with their feet stuck next to the bodies of Gram and Gran. I audibly gasped once I took it all in.
“You’re obsessed with that frickin thing,” my mom yelled from behind me.
I let go of the snow globe. Turned around to face my mom. She stared at me from the edge of the room. I could have completely been projecting, but it felt like there was a tension buzzing between us.
“Oh yeah,” I shot one last look at the snow globe while I spoke. “Let’s start those cookies so we can relax.”
We finished the cookies (only burnt a couple) and proceeded to “relax.” For my mom that meant a pre-noon White Russian. For me that meant a brisk walk to town to grab a latte and some much-needed alone time.
I discovered my hopes of relaxation were futile as soon as I put my jacket on within eye range of my step-dad.
