It was December, right around New Year’s to be exact. My family and I had been driving for an hour and a half in the cold and finally made it to the funeral parlor. My fear had been rising during the entire trip. I hate funerals more than any else. This only because of my great grandmother’s death. My heart beating frantically as I got out the car with my grandmother, gripping her arm tightly. I knew I had to be strong for my family but my shivering and nervous twitching didn’t help that. I get out of the car and with my grandmother, walking her into the funeral parlor. My breath was caught in my throat was we stepped into the room where Kennith’s casket was. 

I couldn’t directly look at it. My grandmother screamed out in pain the moment we walked into the funeral room. I kept telling myself the entire time That’s not him. This must be some joke. It’s just a prank. That’s not him. That’s not him. The thing about death that's scary isn’t just that it’s inevitable, it’s seeing the body of the dead person you once loved. Seeing the body of that person in a casket is a horrible thing that stays in your head forever. One moment you see them as themself, happy, alive, and the next, they're lifeless in a wooden casket with their lifespan presented next to them. I knew that first hand and now I have to walk right up to that casket, shaking my head. But there he was: dead and embalmed in a casket wearing his trademark newsboy hat and a nice tux and silver watch. 

To me, he didn’t look like himself, he looked more like a doll, his face all flushed out and powdered with make to make him look more alive.The man’s dead, so let him look dead. I know we want to imagine him being alive again, but he’s a corpse now and is at peace. I saw everyone in my family, excluding my dad since he was at work, and family friends enter the funeral home. Iit finally was going to begin. From the prayer all the way until it was time for my mom to speak about Kennith, I didn’t cry much, only a few tears here and there. But when my mom talked about their memories and hanging out with each other and all the times they sang corny songs in the car, that was my breaking point. I got up from out of my seat and hugged my mom tightly as she made her way towards the back. 

The past 2 funerals I had gone to that year I didn’t really cry at for two reasons: 1. I didn’t even know them that well and 2. There have already been so many deaths in my family that I was numb to it. I was so accustomed to death that crying didn’t come easily, which was weird and scary to me. It felt like I was devoid of emotion or something. Even so, at that moment, I cried. I cried my swollen, aching heart out. I loved it. Once my tears dried and the funeral came to a close, I did one more walk towards the casket, feeling anxiety all over again. I look directly at him, my heart pounding harshly in my chest. For the longest time that I’ve gone to funerals, I never look into caskets. This was one of the times I did.