As I step outside into the pouring rain, I get a whiff of wet grass and mud, mixing together to create a fresh yet unpleasant odour.
I look forward to seeing about 20 other people - some of whom I have never seen before - all standing under a gazebo waiting for my uncle's funeral to begin.
The grass underneath me oozes water and mud, and my feet become drenched in a few short minutes. I look up to see nothing but dark gray spread across the sky, no sun in sight. I can hear lots of murmuring and quiet conversations taking place, everyone careful not to be too loud, breaking the sad silence.
I take my spot in the front row, reserved for close family; the chairs are soaked from the cold rain water. I can hear a soft puttering noise from the rain on the gazebo, piling up and dragging the middle down from the weight of water. I watch as more people
approach.
Nobody says anything. Numerous strangers come up to me, telling me how sorry they are, claiming to be aunts and uncles and cousins whom I have never met before.
I look towards my mom for encouragement but her face is sunken and cold, and I can't seem to make eye contact with her; she is in a far-off place that I can't seem to reach. The cold breeze makes the hair on my arm stand up and creates goose bumps on my open skin.
There are two little kids splashing around in puddles; I wish I could be them. They seem not to have a care in the world, not realizing that they are at their grandfather's funeral, what it means that they will never see him again.
At my feet, there are worms crawling around, so happy to be out of the ground and in the fresh water and dampness of the earth. One seems to be pregnant, but then again every worm I have ever seen looks pregnant. It slithers towards a puddle in the mud and disappears, leaving a little trail for other worms to follow.
I let my legs relax and my feet begin to sink into the mud. I don't really care at this point; that's the last of my worries.
Looking around at the faces, some familiar, I wish I was any place but here.
Tears are slowly pouring out of most eyes around me, and I can't help but let my own pour too.
Once I start, I can't stop. I watch the tears pour out onto my jacket and I don't bother wiping them away.
As my aunt walks to the front, drenched from head to foot, I can't help but feel her pain. I could never imagine losing my loved one of forty years. Her face is so cold; there is no colour in it.
She walks with a bit of a limp and her hair is thinning fast. Seeing her makes me realize I don't have it that bad, and that I should put on an act to help her feel better.
I wipe away my tears and tell myself to smarten up, at least until the service is over.
