Real Fiction Post: Buried

Up until last October, I had never been to an actual funeral before. I had known people who had died – my great-grandmother when I was seven, my grandfather when I was eleven, a boy I’d kissed (and maybe loved a little, in that childish, first-crush kind of way) when I was fourteen – but I had never been to a funeral until my uncle passed away from cancer last year. It was a weird experience, not just because it was a Catholic service and I’m, well, not, but it was one of about three times that my mother’s side of my family was forced to interact with my father’s and like both times before it, it was about five shades of uncomfortable for everyone involved.

Because I wrote about my family, the only real changes I’ve made are just adjusting people’s names. In case you haven’t noticed, most of the people I know and love in real life get fun fake names when I mention them here, just to be on the safe side, and I’m continuing this tradition in this post. Aside from the name-changes I am posting the essay as-is, minor grammatical mistakes and all - no matter how much they hurt me inside. ;-)

( "Buried" )