I’ve only ever been to one funeral in my life, my granddad. It was horrible, I hated every second, and it was heart breaking. So many random things bring up memories, but nothing was quite as terrible as that movie last night. The coffin, the people dressed in black, the flowers.
When I climbed into the car afterwards, and stared at the sky, my best friend asked if I was okay, before swiftly changing subject. I didn’t tell her why I was upset, because it’s not normal for that to make you upset.
As we drove past the crematorium on the way home, she told me quite bluntly that it was where they’d burnt her granddad, and she laughed. She really was trying to make light of what I imagine isn’t a lovely situation for her, either, but once more, it sparked up memories for me, too. I did all that I could not to pull over.
We made it home, we laughed on the way, and I was soon okay again. I don’t however want another reminder any time soon of just how raw those cuts still are.
Living. Laughing. Loving.