I hate funerals. I hate them because I have to wear black. I like bright colors. I had to buy new clothes just for the funeral. I managed to get away with an orange tie, but I think that’s just because my dad asked my grandma to stop yelling at me.
I also hate funerals because the entire family gathers for them. Aunts and uncles and cousins that I barely know all crowd into my house for dinner and to swap stories about my mom. After the “pleasantries” are over and people run out of things to talk about, the conversation inevitably ends up on me. My dad always looks away as the relatives wonder aloud about boyfriends and why I don’t look more feminine.
I can imagine what my cousins are whispering behind their hands as they glance at me. I stand it for as long as I can, and then I retreat to my room. My grandma doesn’t even stop me.
After everyone leaves and it gets really quiet, I love graveyards. It feels like it’s just me and my mom, even though I know it’s just me. These rituals and traditions are for the living, though. I just sit down in the dirt and talk as if my mom were there to nod and smile.
“I’m sorry I disappointed you.”
“I love you.”
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