Thursday, July 26, 2012


Sixteen years ago, I went to my first funeral. I don't remember a lot of it.

I remember being so freaked out because I would have to see the coffin. And I knew it was going to do my head in.

It did.

I remember seeing it for the first time. It was so tiny, and sitting up all on it's lonesome on a table at the front of the church, and I felt like my knees were going to give out on me, but they didn't. Good knees.

I remember driving out to the cemetery, and the sun was shining. How could the sun be shining when the whole world, by rights, should have been dark and cold and empty?

I remember everyone coming back to my little house, and how nice it was not to have to be alone for a while.

I remember asking someones' husband to take photos. He looked at me funny, but he took them. Only a few -- but I have them. Which is lucky. Because most of the day would be lost to me otherwise.


  1. Toni, I've been thinking of you. I knew the day was close.
    I wish coffins so small weren't needed. I wish you'd been able to watch your son grow up.
    Sending you much love.

  2. My eyes welled with tears, looking at that picture.
    *hugs* Just *hugs*.

  3. Small white coffins always make me cry, even if they're in a TV show or a movie. In 1990, I sat in a funeral home and saw my nephew's small white coffin lined up next to those of his parents, my sister-in-law and her husband. They'd all died together in a car accident. It's a terrible thing to bury a child, I'm so sorry for you, having to go through that.


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