It was, all in all, a rather eventful morning.

Memorials are quiet places filled with quiet people all wanting to be loud.

And the reverend speaks like a comedian on television, his voice loud and strong as he tells jokes about Jesus and eternal life, but the punchlines aren't funny.

And everyone crawls into themselves, stretching their skin tight until their faces pinch into forced little smiles while her daughter reads off an essay in life too fast, with emotion tucked in her pockets to save for a rainy day.

And half the family cries silently, sitting in front of the rest like animals on display. Look how they break. Look how they fall.

Then we all march up in silence, hugging and shaking hands of a husband who clutches his Kleenex like it will save her soul.The children smile empty little smiles and the ones that don't cry laugh and shake in their black patent shoes, teeth clenched, holding back the flow of angry words as women with fake smiles and forced apologies put themselves on pedestals, acting in front of the crowd like players of a stage.

"Why are you here now when you were never there then?"

And we all walk back to our cars feeling hollow and lonely with the weight of death on out shoulders, distanced from the rest in all of this togetherness, just wanting to close out eyes and sleep.