lisa-schroeder

«I__e never been to a funeral until today. I see dazzling arrangements of red, yellow, and purple flowers with long, green stems. I see a stained-glass window with a white dove, a yellow sun, a blue sky. I see a gold cross, standing tall, shiny, brilliant. And I see black. Black dresses. Black pants. Black shoes. Black bibles. Black is my favorite color. Jackson asked me about it one time.__va, why don__ you like pink? Or yellow? Or blue?_ __ love black,_ I said. __t suits me._ __ suit you,_ he said. I__ not so sure I love black anymore.And then, beyond the flowers, beneath the stained-glass window, beside the cross, I see the white casket. I see red, burning love disappear forever. As we pull away, my eyes stay glued to the casket. It__ proof that sometimes life does not go on. I look around. If tears could bring him back, there__ be enough to bring him back a hundred times. That__ not what I__ thinking. I__ thinking, I hate good-byes. It__ like I was a garden salad with a light vinaigrette, and Jackson was a platter of seafood Cajun pasta. Alone, we were good. Together, we were fantastic.Memories might keep him alive. But they might kill me.»

Sometimes you want to remember. And sometimes you need to forget.