Everyone wore black. Black hose. Black dress. Black suit. Black heart. I wore pink, the offspring wore a sun dress. It wasn't black. We laughed and sang the whole ride there. It was definitely right but almost felt wrong.
I hate funeral homes. The smell. The casket. The tears. I cried, but for different reasons. I wasn't close to the woman, and didn't know her well. I was merely a support system. But my heart felt different. My heart cracked a little, and it hurt to swallow.
Before we left, the sun shined like a light saber and the air, crisp. I had to explain to a puppy-dog-eyed three-year-old what Heaven is. What death is. Why the woman was in a box, in plain sight, but in Heaven too.
Much like everything else, it made me think of my father and the service he never had. The respect he never had. Or the flowers I have yet to place at the foot of the silver marker. The one that's all wrong, covering the ashes I never knew about.
It made me think of writing. Sometimes it's black. Sometimes it makes me cry, but for different reasons. Sometimes my heart cracks and it hurts to swallow because the story is wrong or right or whatever. Sometimes I have to explain why I let it die or reason why it's better off.
This may not make sense to you, but it's
a whole lot clearer
on my end.
It's time to become a butterfly...
I hope you enjoyed the hubs's guest post yesterday about our pretend pool boy. If you missed it, shameshame.
Tell me, in light of this entire post, and in response to yesterday's, who's your literary crush?
P.S. Leave a comment and you're entered to win a stained glass butterfly bookmark.
Winner announced tomorrow.