My shoes are pinching and I wince; Aunt Judy sees but nods, as if my pain was actually caused by Grandpa's death. I smile in my head, smug that I can get away with such blasphemous behaviour.
Oh don't get me wrong, part of me is sad and I did cry...a few tears. But the ever-growing notion that I just didn't like him that much, eats away my guilt.
Soon, I hear the vicar's monotone voice heaving to an end, his solemn face betraying none of the boredom that I am sure is underneath.
How tiring it must be to hear families moaning about their 'great loss' all the time, how it's devastated their whole life, how nothing will ever be the same again. No, nothing will ever be the same again that is a fact, well done. I find it funny how people at their most weakened state can become so competitive over their grief, as if no one in history has ever suffered or been through a similar thing or ever will. I imagine that if 2 funerals were to happen at the same time, they'd all be jumping into the grave themselves, trying to out do each other.
As I mull over this image, the procession starts and I file out with the rest of the herd, one after another. People hover outside, wanting to wring out their last tears and condolences. I am confronted by a multitude of blank-faced relatives who I do not remember, hugging me and patting my head, I have to fight the urge to scream at them to piss off. Eventually though, I am able to say my goodbyes with the appropriate just-about-to-cry look and mandatory hand squeeze before heading towards my car.
As I drive away, I glance into my mirror and think over the day and before I know it, I'm laughing at the time-consuming ritual, the praising of a post-mortem bastard and the unbelievable hypocrisy of it all. The laughter continues till I get home and a thought strikes me, how many people would cry my funeral? Or better yet, how many could laugh? But most importantly, which one would I prefer...
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Submission Name: The Start
