My hands were shaking as I slowly reached out for the pink rose that was placed on the chair I was going to sit on. The hall was a cold contrast to the heat waiting outside the building paired with the burning sun. The pastor walked up to the front, right to the bright coffin made out of birch wood.
I took some time to admire the decorations surrounding her corpse that was laying in that box. There were a bunch of flowers and bushes everywhere, all in rosé, white and dark green, and there were lots of blossoms laying on top of the wood and i could see a wreath made of the same flowers with a ribbon placed on the streps, and one of those pink colored roses on each of the 32 brown chairs that were far too uncomfortable to sit on for a long time and only 13 of them were in use.

I wondered if she liked the fact that only a couple of people showed up, or if she would've been disappointed.

I could barely listen to what the pastor said, I was too distracted by the coffin, but I remember him talking about her characteristics and life.

That it was a fulfilled and wonderful life.

Did he say that at every funeral? He didn't even know her.

That she loved us and the beach. The ocean. The color red. Ice cream, but just not vanilla.

He didn't even know her.

That she was a happy person.

He didn't even know her.

That she will live on in our memories forever. That her life is over because god wanted it to end.
That she will miss us just like we miss her, but we'll see her again in heaven. Because she was a good person.

He didn't even know her.

He didn't even know her like I did.

I knew that she wouldn't just live on in our memories, but in our hearts. Because she had touched us and our life. She would always be a part of me, and others. She changed us. She made me who I am now.

And I loved her.

With my whole damn heart.

And now she's gone.

I couldn't help but clutching onto the rose I held in my hands and I didn't even notice the thorns cutting through my flesh.

I wasn't sad.

I was furious.

And I had absolutely no right to feel that way, so I tried to bury the rage deep in my heart where it chose to nest and stretch out its roots, just like the cancer did in her body.

When the pallbearers pulled up the coffin and carried it to the grave, I couldn't think straight.

They were all in black.

Black hair,

Black clothes,

Black shoes,

Black everything.

Black looks in their eyes, dark, hopeless.

But the blackness seemed wrong.

They didn't know her.

The blackness, symbolizing the sorrow, was fake.

Fake because they didn't know her.

How could they grief over someone's death if they didn't know them, know us?

They never spoke to?

They never saw before?

I threw my roses, now three, on the coffin and watched them fall on the wood. I wondered if we all had to fall to be in place. I wondered if she had to fall to reach peace. I wondered if she was now home.

I hoped she was in peace.

Later that day, after the funeral officially ended, we took our cars and drove home.

To eat.

The people laughed and talked like nothing had happened.

I couldn't eat anything.

I felt like vomiting.

I felt like screaming and shouting and yelling at every one of them for pretending like it was okay. Like we didn't just lose one of the most important people in my life.

I felt like taking the bread of the table and the cheese and the coffee and all the other food and slam it into their faces.

But I knew that that was wrong.

I was more than aware of the fact that that is not what she would've wanted. She would've wanted us to hold on to our humor, our laughs, our routines, our lifes.

Because she lost hers, she wanted us to fight for ours even more.

So I took all that anger and used it to destroy the spreading roods of that rage. I shall no longer give it food. I shall end it, because she couldn't win her fight.

Because she isn't wandering amongst us anymore.

Because she's one of the lost souls.

I wish I had a bit more time with her.