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.