You had once told me that funerals aren't for the dead, but for the living. I had shrugged it off, giving you a small smile.
You were known for being too wise for your age, just as I took too much for granted at my age.
But never more than right now do I believe you. Funerals are for the living. Seeing the scene in front of me, I have no doubt about that now.
Everyone is here, listening respectfully to a man discuss your life. It's suffocating.
A man who didn't even know you, tells the people you were supposed to be closest to what kind of person you were. It feels so wrong on so many levels.
But your parents still cry, letting the words soothe their pain. It's a way of mourning, I suppose. The dead have already moved on. It's the living that cannot.
I look around the dark, wet clearing and glance over all the crying people for the third time in the last five minutes. You'd think they would sadden me, but they don't. Not really.
They mostly annoy me. They're not crying for what you have lost, but for what they have lost. Humans are selfish in that way.
I sigh heavily, my eyes dull as they follow the raindrops that tumble down to earth. My pretty black flats are muddy, but I refuse the umbrella from Mom. I want to be in the rain.
The rain is hated for no reason.
Why is it something we complain about when it cleanses the world? I'm starting to think we're all just jealous because it's so much more important than we'll ever be.
I can still feel your presence and for a second, it's like I'm not alone. It's short lived though.
It's ironic, in a way. The rain and the tears, all mashing together.
Even the sky is weeping for you. How poetic.
You would've loved it.
The sky is crying for you. So am I.
. . .
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