When I was younger, just a boy, I went to a funeral. It was for my grand-mother, father’s side, it was held nearby. I was taken out of school for the day, and followed by hushed condolensces from teachers I barely knew, we made our way there. I don’t remember if I wore a suit, my drab school uniform probably sufficed.
I didn’t know my grandmother well, but even now the memories I have are kind ones. Warm Christmases, long car journies, and towards the end dull walls and stiff backed armchairs in small rooms with no-where to play. She was always kind though, even at the end, in a place that garnered no kindness.
I don’t know why I couldn’t cry. The people around me in black suits and dark dresses all cried. My father cried as they told me it was ok, she was in a better place. I couldn’t cry though. I tried to, I tried to understand, I tried to do what was expected of me. I can’t remember if I succeeded. My clearest memory is the piper’s drone and the sun sitting low in the sky.
The following week at school I saw a boy throw a rock at a hawk fledgling that had fallen from the nest. In its panic it flew into the nearby pond. As it struggled and sank below the water tears flowed down my cheeks. Even now that memory haunts me.
Unknown 