Funeral time today, my grandmother is dead. But 89 years isn't something to complain about, I even think it's too much.
My mom, sister and I went to see her a last time two days ago, my first dead person. She laid in her box with her eyes stitched together and a smirking smile, the white shirt covering her stiff, gaunt body. I couldn't cry since there just was the shell of what once used to be granny. The shell of a human. All I kept on thinking was where the heck her soul was, I mean, it can't just die? Where is her soul?
I touched her mummified hands eventhough I don't think I should have. My grand-mummie was in that box, but my grandmother is someplace very very different than on this troubled earth.
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