Personal Narrative: A Day At A Funeral Home

The rain falls softly, hitting the pavement with a hollow ping. I stand frozen, watching the raindrops hit the blacktop and run in different directions sink beneath the grass. The wind is bitterly cold and feels like needles as it tears through my coat and burns my hands and face. I inhale deeply, closing my eyes. A teardrop slides down between my nose and cheek before joining the rain on the cemetery lawn.
Strangers in black coats, black hats, black shoes, their faces blurry and unfamiliar, pass in front of me as they enter the funeral home. The silence of the morning is interrupted only by the rain, and an occasional sniff or sob of a family member or friend. But not from me, I cry quietly, discreetly, carrying my grief deep inside of me.