Gifted

The day of my grandmother's funeral was very dreary.  It rained as we drove to the site.  I can remember putting my forehead against the glass of the window to feel the cold.  I was thinking about how we spend our entire lives trying to feel warm.  We search for love to melt our cold hearts, vacation in the south, and drink hot cocoa fireside after a day of trekking in a winter wonderland. But that day, all I wanted to feel was the cold window pane and have the water condense and trickle down my cheek.  If only to numb my throbbing brain.

I hadn't cried.  From the day I found out she passed to the day I watched her six feet under.  Not a tear.  Maybe that's why I wanted the to feel the water trickle down my face.  My cheek was missing something and maybe by replacing it with the next best thing I could fill that hole or at the very least feel something.  Anything.

The saddest thing about that day wasn't the terrible weather or my throbbing head.  It wasn't thinking about my grandma's cookies or her habit of leaving lipstick on my cheeks. It wasn't even the crying or lack thereof.  The saddest thing was how natural it seemed for my parents, as if they had been trained.  How to dress. How to act. It makes me scared. As I get older I'll slowly realize how common it really is. How my first funeral certainly won't be my last. How someday I may have to take my kid's to their first funeral or they may have to take me to my last...