I wore black eyeliner to a funeral.
Possibly, with every feathered swipe across each lid I was testing my emotional threshold.
Just daring myself to shed a tear.
After all, it wasn’t my Grandmother who had died.
It wasn’t my family grieving a lost loved one.
I was there as support. A tree to lean on.
I didn’t go to my Grandmother’s funeral.
I was 6,677 miles away in Seoul.
She died just three weeks before I was set to return home.
I missed my Grandmother’s funeral.
But there, at this funeral for the Grandmother that wasn’t mine
As the casket closed, and the processional walked on to the sounds of a bagpipe
I thought of my family.
My dad, my aunts, and uncles and the moments before my Grandmother’s casket was closed in the church I grew up in.
Were there bagpipes?
I am not a religious person.
But priests- priests are storytellers, and I do believe in stories.
The weavers of the spoken word- shared from their pulpit.
I heard a lovely story of a Grandmother very much like my Grandmother.
I wondered, what story did our priest share that day?
And for the first time in 16 months I wept out of sadness and not anger.
Today I mourned my Grandmother.