Dear Reader, 

 

This is far from your average story. Read with caution.

 

Hours put into preparations. People flood into this small, hollow room. All a pool of blacks and greys, and the occasional pink or white cloth in the crowd. 

 

I appreciate that. Flowers lay on tables, no vases. Wrapped in ribbons in shades of pinks, reds, and purples. 

 

It’s weird, no water sits or sprays in this room, yet it is so very damp. The rows of wooden seats are still empty, but this room, these people, are not. Many are filled with emotions, but only some express. 

 

Laughter echoes off the walls. The energy shifts. The empty feeling fades, the rows fill up, and the room is less damp. 

 

She doesn’t bother taking a seat; she takes her time walking to the end of the aisle. Heels click on the concrete below the thin fabric with every step. In this room full of people, this small space, decorated for me. So many souls.

 

She is my first visitor. The first to call my name and smile as the ceremony begins. I’m talked about. I’m the main subject. Memories fall in liquid form from everyone in black and grey. 

 

The ceremony ends, short and bitter. However, this ray of sunshine, the first to greet me, the laughter, the pink cloth, my daughter. She turns to reveal my second greeter, the white cloth, the young blood, the one who earned the laughter, my granddaughter. 

 

Both faces are bright and colorful, as the flowers she picked out for this day are.

 

But nothing shines brighter than the three tiny daisies that lie on my chest, colors matching their placer. 

 

The pink cloth may be the most colorful, the happiest on the outside, but will be the last to break. Last to cry. Last to say goodbye.