I have never been one for crying at Funerals. Or weddings for that matter, though at this moment in time, that is beside the point. To some, that seemed to mean I was cold hearted, or worse still hadn’t got a heart at all. 

That was of, course, clearly false. 

I felt it thumping steadily in my chest, tapping against my breastbones calmly and rhythmically as you like as I made my way through my own little world. It was just that, to me, funerals were. I don’t quite know…somehow a bit false. Places where people said all the nice things about someone that you never really thought (and plainly never said) when they were alive.

The first tears I ever shed at a funeral, were the only ones to grace the heavy air of the chapel. The only salty water that streaked down a pair of cheeks, and the only drops to glint in the morning light that streamed in an unusual burst of winter brightness through the Eastern window. 

People filled the space, murmuring amongst themselves. Their whispered memories carried in the air from rumbling voices which were far more cheerful than other funerals the chapel had witnessed. And there was not a wet eye in the place. 

Except for mine. 

No-one wore black, everyone merged into one garish crowd of inexplicably joyful colours. Reds, blues, yellows, and greens shouted at me from the grey confines of the chapel stonework as my family filled the front rows, whilst colleagues and neighbours occupied the back and sides. 

The only funeral I ever cried at was the first I could ever truly be called heartless. The only tears I shed, a stream of self pity as I watched everyone gather to extend their thanks that I was gone.