My funeral was very simple.
A small, thin coffin. A set of burial clothes that grandmother bought from town.
I had never worn clothes that nice. The fabric was very soft, a pale sky blue. The collar was embroidered with small rocket patterns—my favorite design when I was little.
When grandmother put them on me, her movements were very gentle, very slow.
Mother wanted to help, but grandmother chased her out.
"You're not worth touching him," grandmother said, her voice very cold.
Mother stood outside the door, covering her face, crying.
Father knelt in front of the coffin, burning paper money over and over. The ashes floated up and landed on his hair, his shoulders. He didn't seem to notice. He just mechanically, one sheet at a time, threw them into the brazier.
Jeff sat in the corne
