no makeup on—there was no time. And the fact that her nails are digging into your arm ceases to matter for a moment; you are unsettled by the
sudden humanness of a person you have grown used to seeing artificial.
But this moment cannot last for long. The last of the extended family has left. Your father wipes his tears and grasps at composure.
Gray, broken men were kind once, although their histories are veiled by
the senile dependence of old age. Upon their death, the veil is torn; what remains is only their past goodness.
Your father swallows the sadness momentarily and beckons toward the entrance. Your mother is rooted to the spot, crying, mumbling incoherently. It is okay to cry today. Funerals let us feel unashamedly. You grab hold of your mother and pull her toward you. It is a clear
and sunny day. The brightness seems to be laughing at the pain so
concentrated around you. People die; the world goes on. No room for pathetic fallacies.
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