The first funeral that I went to was my grandpa’s. He was 89 when he passed away. Now, no one ever taught me about the rituals that take place at a funeral. I only knew that I had to wear black. My grandpa died 5 days before his funeral. During that whole time I didn’t cry.
When I went home because of his passing I had a blast because my brother was in town (he goes to college in Massachusetts) and he’s like a best friend to me. I didn’t actually cry until I saw my grandpa’s body at the funeral. I didn’t even go to see him before he died, and I could have. I didn’t want to acknowledge this, however. I didn’t want to think about death and dying and what it all means. I didn’t want to think about how he wasn’t going to be here anymore and how that would affect my life and that of everyone in my family.This goes back to what we learned in class about how we are taught to hide our illnesses. Even though I knew that, I still didn’t want to watch him die.

After the funeral I understood why they did it. They needed closure, we all do. It is an important part of the grieving process, one that I was in denial of for too long. Even though he was no longer alive and probably couldn’t hear my parting words to him, I now know that it is important to get your feelings out in some way, and for most people talking works. For me, however, writing seems to work the best.