Oma's funeral was last Tuesday. I had been at Opa's most of the days before, just being there for him, helping out around the house.
The wake was the day before. Everyone went up to the open casket, to say goodbye, I guess. I didn't. It's not that I was afraid to see her body lying there, lifeless; I just didn't feel that was her. It was her body, yes, but the thing that made Oma, Oma, the soul or whatever you want to call it, that was somewhere else. I already said goodbye, in my own way, at the hospital as she died. I'm not religious, but I do hope that there is some sort of afterlife, where our souls can meet again, and continue to experience things, to learn.
The funeral itself was interesting. I tried very hard not to cry. I wanted to stay strong for everyone else, but it was difficult, especially seeing gruff family members cry for the first time; it was odd. I didn't much care for the pastor who spoke, but I'm proud of the speeches my family gave.
At the end of the service, I, along with my cousin and uncles, carried the coffin to the hearse.