White - pure, innocent and elegant. A dedicated color of wedding, celebration and devotion.
Black - simple, sophisticated and do no wrong. A respectful color of funeral, farewell and grief.
Glancing down at the contrast of her white blouse and all the black outfits through out the entire venue somehow seems weirdly unfitting. People grief in similar ways, in different order perhaps but ultimately the same process. Yet I wonder how many of them actually know her, who actually share solid memory of her?
Out of all venue, why would they pick a freaking church? Grandma wasn’t even religious, she believed in no god but making her own fate. Repaying formality as guests give the sincere condolence, we nod with a thank you smile but my mind has wandered elsewhere. Eyes on the surroundings, trying to make sense of how short a 30 minutes ceremony seems to be while we spend at least half a day to celebrate a wedding, the joy of two becoming one yet when it comes to the end of life, in memories of our beloved - 30 minutes was all they have.
Bit and pieces of memories flying through the back of my mind, mixing the wonderful memory of walking down the aisle in dad’s arm and the biggest smile on my grandmother’s face; her sweet warm hug whenever I fell down and refused to get up until she would pick me up and gave me endless kisses; her giggle and laughter at my silly jokes; her worried face when there’re boys she didn’t approve of; her white pale lifeless body slipping away right in front of my eyes.
For a sentimental person like me, I am beyond frustrated and surprised that I haven’t shed a single tear since her passing one week ago. Not even with all the fondest moments I have of her, there is no surprises. We have all prepared ourselves for the past few years, yet I am the only one in the family who is yet to show emotion.
It isn’t until a gentle tap on my elbow to pull me back to reality, “Would you like a glass of water?” With a shake of my head, the man I have been married to for the past decade continue greeting and directing the guests while my father sits in the front row and quietly mourning the death of his mother. Luckily his wife is with him, she always knows the right thing to say even at times like this. And like my father, I am just as lucky - to have the perfect husband, the cutest child and lovely home. I have it all, I am the luckiest lady in the world.
Unable to determine my exact feelings, an undeniable decision remain the same - I am getting a divorce.
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Not exactly happy with this first draft but it is as raw as it gets, including all the grammar mistakes but you get the initial ideas of linking wedding and funeral, celebration and farewell. Thought to introduce with death then move onto divorce, marriage, rebellion and birth. BUT it’s just a concept, I don’t have any plan. My writing has gone to shit after a year break, but the urge to write tonight is strong ....
