The Hardest Thing

My father sat down, puffy-eyed and exhausted. My row rustled, the black dresses sat up and floated in front of me, passing me. It was my turn to stand up and fall in line with my cousins. I joined the dismal promenade to the front of the room. Through a blurry screen of tears I stumbled into place. The pianist began the prelude to "Be Still, My Soul" and I tried to clear my throat. This marked the beginning of the song and my own non-musical accompaniment, a rise and fall of emotions. As I choked out the first verse all I could think about was my sweet Grandpa and his final sickly strung out days with cancer. The second verse rolled out, I gained composure upon remembering that I believe in the idea of eternity. I will be reunited with my Grandpa for all of time and beyond. My mood darkened again when we hit the final verse. I knew that I would see Chuck's honest grin and hold his callused hands again, but some faces in the crowd did not know it. So few in the crowd knew it, knew that there is a light after the abrupt close of a coffin. Singing that day was almost a physical impossibility, but nowhere near as difficult as the swallowing of the true tragedy around me. 

The hardest thing is when the people you love the most do not hold the same hope as you.