Following the service, we rode to the cemetery where his father was to be buried next to his mother. I stared out the window at the leaves on the trees, green and lush. As the warm sunlight poured through the tinted window and onto my skin, the only thing I could think of was who might sit at Jack’s side at my funeral. I wondered who all would turn out for the occasion. Would it be small and intimate? Or large—teeming with people and their good intentions, glad that if it had to be somebody to die, it wasn’t them? Would they be sad for an entire day—or would they pay their respects and get on with it like the rest of the world? Would the day be gray and cloudy, overcast—or gorgeous like today? Almost too gorgeous to hold an occasion with such finality. And how did one really say goodbye anyway? I wondered what I had done in my life—if anything—to deserve the grief of family or friends—or lack thereof, depending on the person, and I couldn’t come up with one good thing. Part of me considered what an odd thing this was to think.
While the other part felt nothing.
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