The sky cried the day Jayden Rollands was buried in the ground. Grey clouds loomed ominously, covering any sign of blue sky or sun. The church was quiet, friends and family remembering the man that once was. The man conducting the ceremony droned on, reading prayers, but Poppy Rollands paid no heed. She sat at the front of the church, loosely holding a handkerchief between cold fingers, remembering her father for all he was worth. Holding on to the memory of his face, with all the wrinkles from smiling too much, happy wrinkles he called them. She remembered his dimples that came out every once in a while, when he smiled so wide Poppy's mother would call him the Cheshire Cat. But most of all Poppy remembered her father's eyes. The indescribable blue colour, so like her own. The way they would scrunch up in the sun and when he laughed.
But Jayden Rollands was gone. And Poppy remembered this thought as the coffin was slowly lowered into the ground, remembered it when she heard the thud and threw the rose in, and she remembered it when she was left behind to watch her father's coffin slowly disappear under the dirt.
She didn't question her mother when she told them they were moving to America, didn't scream and cry because she was leaving everything behind. Poppy had already screamed and cried enough that there was nothing left. She was emotionally drained. Her mother called it the grieving stage, but Poppy knew she would always be grieving over her father. It was a loss she would never completely recover from.
They left for America the next week from England, looking at the old house one last time before driving to Heathrow and boarding their plane to Detroit, Michigan and their new life.
