My funeral was a simple one.
A small plain little coffin. A burial dress Grandma had bought in town, pale pink, the fabric soft, the collar embroidered with tiny flowers. I had never worn anything so fine.
Grandma dressed me herself, her hands slow and gentle. When my mother tried to help, Grandma sent her out of the room. "You don't deserve to touch her," she said, her voice flat and cold.
My mother stood outside the door and wept.
My father knelt before the coffin, tending memorial candles one by one, feeding sheets of paper into the brazier. The ash from the paper offerings drifted up and settled in his hair, on his shoulders. He didn't seem to notice. He just kept going, one sheet after another, mechanical and hollow.
Stella sat in the corner with her arms wrapped around her knees
