They lived and died together.

3:30 am, 10 or 11 hours since my grandparents died. My migraine is gone now but I've wakened with my heart pounding too hard and too fast in my chest. There's an image from the internet stuck in my head -- my dad, cell phone to his ear (that much is so familiar), standing on the far side of my grandparents' wrecked car. He's small amid all the emergency personnel and onlookers. To consumers of the news he's just another person on the scene of a tragic accident.

The accident happened in front of my great aunt's house; she lives across from the feed store, where Grandma and Grandpa were going to buy cat food. So some of my family, who are always there on Sunday afternoons, heard the accident, looked out, and knew the car -- a distinctive royal blue Plymouth Fury, vintage 1969-ish. They called my dad, so when he got to the scene my grandma was still trapped in the car by her foot, and conscious. Grandpa had already passed.

Grandma's sister got the news from the news. Before the names were released she saw the car. No one else has a bright blue 1969 Plymouth Fury.

 Those news consumers think this is a sweet story. The first responders found Grandma and Grandpa holding hands in the car. The news story featuring this detail had over 250 sweet comments and 800 likes within 6 hours of the accident. The versions on the other news stations' sites, without this detail, have no likes and no comments. I am glad the people like the story. They're crying and smiling over it. They want to die like that, with their sweetheart and best friend, they say. After being married forever. And Grandpa and Grandma truly loved each other those 60-however-many years, and none of us who knew them are surprised that they were holding hands. Of course the first thing they did was reach for each other.

 It's 4:41 am and I'm cooking pasta. All I could manage last night was some hot chocolate, and I'm so hungry now.