It was my great grandad’s Though I hardly knew him. We went to London for a few days. The only thing I can remember is getting my hair caught in a boy’s shirt button. He was in the row in front of me. His shirt was light blue. Plaid. Button up. I can’t remember his name but he looked familiar. My five year old self whispered “Sorry, sorry, mommy help me” As my grandfather was giving a eulogy for his father. And my father unwrapped my hair and pulled my head back, Leaving a few strands caught in the boy’s shirt. The look on my father’s sad face, remembering his grandfather. The look of my mother’s face: Support. My older sibling’s face: boredom yet sympathy. My face: Head down. Shy. Not knowing what to do. Looking up every couple minutes To see the priest’s hairpiece flop around And stifle a laugh.