Everyone’s dressed in dark colors, it’s so gloomy.

This place smells- I thought it was a church?

My dress is too tight, and my shoes hurt my feet.

Why are we even here?

Is there food?

Why’re pictures of *mamaw playing on the tv screen?

She looks pretty in that dress.

I wonder where mamaw is.

Ma told me she’d be here.

Should I not be smiling?

I thought it was best to smile.

People are giving me weird looks.

Maybe I shouldn’t smile.

This room has flowers.

More pictures of mamaw.

No one ever puts this many pictures of me up.

Did someone say the casket room?

What’s a casket room?

Oh it’s the flower room, where I am.

Is that the casket?

The big brown box?

What’s in it?

Mamaw?

Why’s she sleeping in a box?

I don’t think she’d like these people to watch her sleep…

Why’re they touching her hand?

They’re gonna wake her.

So rude.

Why’s mamaw wearing a pretty dress to sleep?

Ma told me to only wear pajamas at night.

Maybe mamaw doesn’t know.

Maybe the dress is comfy.

It looks comfy.

I’ll leave her alone.

I don’t wanna wake mamaw.

We’re outside now?

But it’s so cold.

I wish ma told me to bring a jacket.

How is mamaw still sleeping?

I would wake up because of the coldness.

I’d be confused as to why my feet were cold.

Huh- why are people looking at me like that again?

Oh, I’m smiling.

Smiling isn’t so bad.

Everyone looks upset.

Maybe I should stop smiling.

I can smile later.

I hope ma can bake some muffins with me later.

I’m hungry.

Why’re they putting the box in the ground?

But mamaw’s in there!

More flowers?

No, don’t close the box!

What’s going on?

Why’s everyone leaving now?

But mamaw’s still in the box!

Ma, don’t make me leave!

I want mamaw!

~

* “Mamaw” is a Southern American dialect term, for “grandmother.

Some children don’t understand the concept of death. I was 6 when I attended my first funeral. And although I had a vague image/definition of death in my mind, I hadn’t wrapped my head around the fact that death is an actual thing. An actual thing that ruins some people’s lives. Although I can’t blame my mother for not wanting to explain the concept of death to her 6-year old child, I do wish I had been told at least a little, so I could have understood the situation a bit more, and hopefully acted more respectively.