Inside

1

I never wore black to funerals.

The first funeral I attended was before I was a full year old. I wore white. I didn't think anything of it. Then again, I was a baby so I didn't do much of thinking to begin with.

My next funeral, I was three. It was my great grandmother's funeral. I wore lilac. It was her favorite color. I don't remember much of the ceremony, but I do remember people telling me that it was nice to see purple in a sea of black.

My third and final (as of now) funeral occurred at age seven. This is the only one I remember being a two day affair. Ceremony, celebrating their life and all that, and the burial. It was my grandfather's brother's funeral. The first day, I wore a pink and orange floral dress. I remember that because it was my favorite. The next day I wore blue. Sky blue if we're talking particular shades. I fell asleep on my grandfather's arm during the ceremony. The next day, it rained.

I was the last one to add a flower to the casket. I had already picked my flower. It was a green daisy. He loved daisies, I was told. I couldn't remember him, but I was apparently his favorite as a baby. I never wanted to be held except by him. He knew me. I didn't know him. Nobody talked about him, but everyone seemed moved to tears by his death. I didn't cry.

Nine years later, I still haven't been to another funeral. I wear black now, but as an everyday color instead of exclusively at funerals. I was always a happy child. Rarely cried. I still am today. I have a high pain tolerance. I tell people saying that I'm crying but in reality I'm emotionless. Even if I did cry I do it in private. To me, crying shows weakness and that's something I can't afford to show.