It was the day of the funeral. I was in a pitch-black dress, black shoes, black fingernails, and my black hair hung freely around my face.
I was sitting as still as a statue, waiting for the funeral to start. When they brought my grandmother out, in the casket, I started to cry.
I didn’t listen to anybody, but soon it was my turn to make a speech.
I stepped forward, and I faced the crowd. The speech I wrote was playing over and over in my head. I had completely memorized it.
“My grandmother was never the fussy, old lady type of woman,” I began.
“Whenever you walked down a street, you would see her, either working hard at a store to raise money for a charity, or helping whoever needs help. She was the type to go out, and make a change.
Whenever I was with her, she would stop whatever she was doing, and talk to me. She hid her sermons and speeches about being good and doing good beneath play and fun.
She always made sure I learned those lessons, however. She was always doing her work cheerfully. I never heard her speak one harsh tone, or raise her voice once.
I don’t think she was capable of doing that, actually. She made a great impact on everybody she met’s lives.
I don’t recognize half of the people here, but she made such a big impact on their life that they’re here. And they’re welcome. She would’ve wanted that.
” A tear slipped down my eye, and I went back to my seat, crying.
Everybody then murmured, “We miss and love you, Amanda Beth Quinn. You will never leave our hearts.”