Personal Narrative: A Day At A Funeral Home

The rain falls softly, hitting the pavement with a hollow ping. I stand frozen, watching the raindrops hit the blacktop and run in different directions sink beneath the grass. The wind is bitterly cold and feels like needles as it tears through my coat and burns my hands and face. I inhale deeply, closing my eyes. A teardrop slides down between my nose and cheek before joining the rain on the cemetery lawn.
Strangers in black coats, black hats, black shoes, their faces blurry and unfamiliar, pass in front of me as they enter the funeral home. The silence of the morning is interrupted only by the rain, and an occasional sniff or sob of a family member or friend. But not from me, I cry quietly, discreetly, carrying my grief deep inside of me.
Family moves into the building, one member squeezing my hand and nodding at me, her own eyes full of tears. I know this place too well. It is here we used to come with my grandmother as we walked the graves and she told us stories about this relative or that relative. I take a deep breath with my hand on the door, a thousand memories and images running through my mind. I hear this dull noise that seems to be coming from inside my head.

The sound in my head grows louder. A sort of white noise like a television left on after the station has gone off the air. I move outside, balls of Kleenex clutched in one hand. The rain had begun to fall harder and the wind seemed to become more bitter. The memories began to run through my head. The green lazy boy, which was older than me and all the grandchildren, he would always sit in. The firm handshake and kiss on the cheek he’d give me every time I saw him. As the more memories started to run through my head, the more tears would run down my face. I still had yet to realize that I would never see him again but it was starting to sink in.