The Unfortunate Certainty of Dying

Flowers aren't nearly as pretty when they're covered in rain.

Cemetery stillness begins to choke my words as I somehow tried to accurately describe my grandfather in the allotted time slot given for remembrance. My family sat before me, dabbing their eyes with crumpled tissues. Probably Kleenex, I thought. 

The words I speak seemed empty, and even though my relatives seemed moved, I didn't feel hardly anything. Not really. At least, not the way I wanted to.

The times of being a child were gone. I had to grow up now. Death has a curiously harsh way of doing that.

"He was a great friend," 

I look at my aunt. She's smiling slightly.

"Always lightened a room,"

 Mom is nodding me on.

"He was so involved in everything I did." 

 My uncle is crying now.

A breeze picks up. Cold, stabbing air hits my lungs as I take a breath. It almost felt like a moment straight out of Anne of Green Gables. I actually think I heard birds "sing" (which always seemed like a cliche thing to do, birds only chirp in my opinion). I clear my throat, then say a few words I don't feel and sit down. The female funeral worker gives a pathetic little smile as she joins the family with quiet applause. It's all forced and fake, I know it is. But I push my pride down to my toes and remain silent. 

Life is an odd thing to begin with, but it becomes even more trivial when you see someone lose theirs. Every small thing you've worried about or argued over seems irrelevant. I want so desperately to feel deeply the words I am saying, but I can't. All I can comprehend is a numb ache. Incredibly annoying, believe me. I'm supposed to cry! I'm supposed to have cookie-cutter funeral emotions. Cue death. Cue rain. Cue tears. The fact that none of this is happening begins to bother my psychologically. I must be a depressed old woman that only laughs if the annoying teenager slips on his skateboard. I put my hands under my cold thighs and try to keep my thoughts under control.

My uncle starts speaking...which turns out to be the classic tale of Grandpa trying to cut down a tree limb and it accidentally crashing onto his roof. Ah, finesse! A hand squeezes mine, and it's my sister. So we stay that way, holding hands that are like ice, but alive. I register all signs of life and close my eyes to trap them in dotted vision. The flap of a bird's wing. The slow step from a widow visiting her husband's grave. The head of my uncle thrown back in laughter as he wraps up his story.

The caravan of somber faces departs our tent-covered location. The rain doesn't let up, and my aunt asks if I want her umbrella. I say no. 

Instead I tilt my head toward the droplets and let it wash over my face, then I turn towards my grandfather's headstone.

My hand moves towards my mouth.

I blow a kiss, not worrying about Grandpa not being able to see it.

He knows.