We, Rudi and I, eat supper late, often between 10 and 11. We split dinner duty, with Rudi making the food and me washing up afterwards. Afterwards, as you might imagine, can get awfully late, and dishwashing is often the thing I leave until last, just before going to bed.

As I plow through plates, pots, and utensils, I sometimes get tired, thinking of the cozy bed and bedmates awaiting me, particularly as I near the bottom of the basin. To power me through the final few items, I have, for the past several years bolstered my morale with a game I called “Even Gramma”:

“There are only a handful of plates and cups before I’m done. Even Gramma could wash those…”

“Ten things left? Even Gramma could polish off ten…”

You get the idea. Clearly this “game” only came into existence after Gramma became older and more frail and wasn’t allowed to wash dishes anymore for fear my parents wouldn’t have any whole ceramics or glassware left. Obviously it wouldn’t have been amusing (or motivating) during the many years she was actually washing up after meals.

Now, of course, she’s dead and has been for several months. Even if she’d been interested in washing dishes, it’s clearly no longer an option. But that doesn’t mean the game has concluded.

Oh, no.

It’s just morphed into the “Even my dead Gramma” game.

Gramma, when alive, would not have appreciated the motivation she provided in powering through a dreaded chore. But now? She would have thought the dead Gramma game was hilarious. I can picture her snorting with laughter thinking about the ridiculous imagery conjured by my late-night brain.

I spend a lot of nights crying into my dishwater.