John just couldn’t put on a smile today. But who could blame him. A funeral is no place to be happy, especially when you’re the husband or son. There she lay, her face at peace; an expression completely different to mine. It all felt so unreal, like a dream, or more of a nightmare. And as the service ended, people began to clear out, except for John and I. We couldn’t move; our feet were entangled by the roots of our grief. After we paid our final respects to her, and she was whisked away by the staff, we were released from our trance, and grimly walked to the civic; one hand holding the keys; the other holding the boy’s.This reminds me of the funeral I went to when I was a kid. It belonged to my grandfather and although I no longer remember much about him, I still remember the day I went to his funeral.
Back then, in my childish four-year-old mind, I thought that it was just another marginal day, that it was simply another day where my parents forced me to wake up early in the morning to go to some uninteresting place. I only noticed that I was in a church after I was forced to sit on the hard benches and seeing the colorful windows high up on the wall.
I didn't understand why I was surrounded by relatives: some sad, some teary, and some crying. I suppose I only realized it was a funeral after seeing my grandfather in the coffin, or maybe I didn't realize. I might have only understood what happened after learning what a funeral was years after.
However, there is one sight I will always remember about that day: my grandmother sitting alone on the bench at the very front, crying silently. Trying to facilitate the pain, maybe.
No comments:
Post a Comment