In Judaism there we bury the dead as soon as we can, usually the day after.

My grandma died of cancer on a Friday. We called the funeral home about a Sunday funeral, because we don’t do funerals on Shabbos. They didn't have time for us, so the funeral was set for Monday at nine in the morning.
I got to the funeral with my parents around 8:30. People arrived and came over to give their condolences, and I dully replied thank you to all of them. I hadn’t cried. I hadn’t expected myself to cry at the funeral.

But I did.

Not for the reasons you would think, though. I knew my grandma was going to die. We all did.

The Rabbi started talking about how he talked to my grandmother and how full of life she was. Malka Chaya was her Hebrew name, meaning queen of life.

I didn’t cry then.

The Rabbi talked about how he brought her back to her childhood growing up in New York.

I didn’t cry then.

The Rabbi talked about how she met her husband and moved to Massachusetts with him.

I didn’t cry then.

The Rabbi talked about when she had my mom and my uncle.

I didn't cry then.

The Rabbi talked about me.

I cried then.

I don’t remember what he said, but it doesn't really matter. What matters is I cried. I cried though I thought I wouldn’t.

I cried. Happily.

I cried because my grandma was in a better place. I cried because my grandma was with her husband and her brother. I cried because my life would soon go back to normal. I cried because I wanted to. I cried because I didn’t want to. I cried.