By Zoe Moga, TIWP Student
The church was quiet, yet I could still hear whispers echoing through the large building. I sat in a pew close to the doors. I haven’t been home in a long time. I haven’t known any of these people in a long time. At this point I only know their names. But there is nothing else. Faces twisted from grief and sleepless nights makes everyone look different. Purple bags under once bright eyes, thinning hair and pale skin. I straighten out my black dress beneath me and I take a deep breath. Soft music begins to play and people sit down. It is finally silent in the church. I see someone walk up to the front of the church. His dad. My dad. I want to run up and hug him, tell him that everything will be okay, that we will survive this. But I lost that right a long time ago. I cover my eyes with my grandmother’s black hat and wipe my tears with my mother’s old handkerchief. I keep myself together, not letting any attention fall on me. If mom saw me here it would be too much for her, so when they bring the coffin down the aisle I look to the other side and pretend I’m just someone else, just a friend, a griever. In a way, it’s true. I haven’t been in this family since I was just twenty-one.
