Grandma Ruth doesn’t go to funerals.

It’s not that she gets squeamish or weak-kneed at the sight of a friend or relative laid out. She takes an avid interest in every detail of the deceased, from the tie they put on third cousin twice removed Billy Ray to how Harriet Tilson’s hair turned out. Nor is it that she lacks respect for those who have gone on to glory before her. Grandma Ruth is the kind of person to whom you do not criticize your mother. And it’s not that she prefers to stay at home and watch Jeopardy! Instead. Grandma Ruth is bedridden—has been for the past three years. Much as she would like to, Grandma Ruth isn’t going anywhere.

I am Sarah Elizabeth, Grandma Ruth’s favorite granddaughter. Being her favorite is a dubious honor. It means I’m her favorite to go to the store and buy birthday cards, visit her shut-in friends, and, you guessed it, attend funerals in her place.

Looking back, I realize I’ve been training for funeral duty for quite a while. When I was ten, she taught me how to make macaroni and cheese from scratch to take by the home of the bereaved for the reception. By the time I was eleven, I had learned to write a tasteful and heartfelt condolence note. I attended my first funeral at twelve. (Grandma Ruth wanted to take me sooner, but Mama put her foot down and prevailed for once.) Now that I’m twenty-four, Grandma Ruth considers me not only fully qualified but socially obligated to take her place since she can’t get out anymore. I don’t think I’ve missed a single funeral in Raeburne’s Ferry, Georgia, since she took to her bed.