The memorial service was good. Well, considering. I managed to get through it with minimal crying, at least. The usual stuff - eulogy, memories, songs, prayers, a forever-long receiving line, goodbyes. Some of the ladies from the church had cookies, punch, and coffee set out in the fellowship hall, and we talked a little more there, making plans for getting to Turkey Creek with the ashes.
Drove up with the family to the church graveyard where Grandma's ashes are buried, between her parents' graves. More memories, more tears. Some irreverent jokes and laughter. My uncle borrowed a vase from a neighboring grave to dig a hole and buried the ashes there (yes, he put it back). Spent a little more time with my great-aunt and her daughter, who live right next door to the church, and then headed home.
We couldn't place the memorial stone there because *technically* they're not buried there (ashes don't count or something), so we're keeping the stone at my house.
So. I'm... here. Grandpa's gone, and I'm sad for that.