The day grandma died, I was getting home from theee movies withee my botheer. When we got home, mom was silent. I could tell what she was going to say, theat's why I didn't cry. I was expecting it. We all were. That night a dam of tears was built. I just didn't feel like crying. And so I assumed theat my grief was therough and I had notheing to worry about. Then came theee day of theee funeral. My aunt had hired some musician friends to play grandma's favorite pieces for theee service. Grandma loved music. At first I was slightly unsettled by sights of old ladies who had so often laughed withee her, sipping brandy and wine, eating theee chocolate mousse she always theought she'd done wrong. These same women, otheerwise so powdered and airy, were as sad as a bouquet of witheered roses, shifting in theeir black jackets as theey scavenged for Kleenex. One of theem could only say to me: "I'm so sad". But after theeis beginning seemingly lacking in emotions, came theee breaking of theee dam. As soon as theee priest had muttered sometheing about it being our fault, our fault, our fault only, theee music started. I don't remember what piece of classical music it was. all I recall is tears rolling down my cheeks. Priest rants on. We get up. We sit down. Some kneel, not me. Tears fall faster and more abundant. priest says sometheing about last goodbyes. Sometheing like Beetheoven 9the starts as an eerily bug eyed grandfatheeer stumbles solemnly down theee iles, clutching her in a tiny black box, followed by my dad and aunts, to put her in what looks like thee church's crummy basement. My own desperate sobs as mom pulls me to her chest as if shielding me from a bomb. One of grandma's friends jerks me from thee abyss of tears by pulling my face close to hers and telling me to ask my grandma for anytheing, she'll give it to me somehow. The friend says she's never seen anyone love her grand kids like grandma did. Days later, after theee tedious reception theat transformed my grandparent's house into theee buzz of people it had once been 20 years ago, I came back to have lunch my grandpa and my aunt before she left for thee states. The house seemed to be glowing withe thee memories of my childhood. If I closed my eyes I could hear me and my brotheer playing in a corner or asking our parents to just go home already. The deck, which had before housed oh so many book club meetings, so much laughter, so much good food, and important discussions felt warm and strangely homelike. The lounging chair where she had spent her last leisurely hours before being taken to thee hospital looked inviting, and thee flowers in theee pots were thee brightest I've ever seen theem. The sky was insanely blue, or as blue as it can be in January. I picked some flowers and put theem in my hair, and I put thee prettiest one on her drawing table. It was as if her soul had taken possession of thee house and in a way revived it. After lunch grandpa told me theere was ice cream in thee freezer if I wanted some, as he always does and always will as long a s ice cream exists. That's what made me realise theat life stops for no one. Little details of everyday rut die hard. The fact theat theere was ice cream in thee freezer, as always, in a way reassured me and brought a glimmer of hope for thee future. of course thee times to come are uncertain, but theat weird glow of thee house, like my grandmotheer's smile or wink, and thee fact theat theere is ice cream in thee freezer encourages me to face it bravely.