why should I hold onto hands that are no longer there?

1

The last memory of my uncle was at my grandmothers funeral when I was in 7th grade. I had wrote this letter but I was too shy to read it out loud so he offered to read it for me. Because I felt more comfortable sitting with him and my older cousin than with my dad. I had written it in my perspective so when he began to read it aloud I remember him going "so daddy and I.." and then laughing because he was calling his older brother 'daddy' and even my 12 year old self could see the humor and adultery that came from that. That day was sad. But I remember spending most of it laughing. I remember spitting out so many jokes to try and deal with the depressing and awkward tunes. I remember how the building had white walls and it was a small place, with a small group. Only her family had shown up for the funeral, it was a lot more humble as opposed to my great grandmothers funeral which had hundreds of people crowding in.  I remember standing in front of her grave, and seeing the hole there. It was hot, and all of the guys were dying of heat from their suits on this summer day. Looking back at it now, I realize how surreal it was. How it had happen to fall on a summer day, the funeral. She was like a summer day, warm and comforting but strict and sassy. She would hug me, and practically shove food down my throat, which I did not mind, and call me her little angel. I remember going to her house almost every time I would visit my father. She had a big shelf, filled with angel upon angel upon angel figurines. She had some made of glass, some of porcelain, and some were just dolls. Her home was small, smaller than ours, but that somehow made it so much better, so much warmer. I remember their old dog, buster and I wonder if he were to see me now, if he would still bark in excitement. If he would recognize me. I don't even know if the old dog is alive anymore. He was a feisty thing, small and white, with the most booming bark. He could scare away predators that's for sure, but he was the sweetest thing. Just like her. Strong enough, and proud enough to push away oppressors, but gentle and caring enough to give a child so much love that she would never truly appreciate until it was gone. I remember her loving smile, the crinkle around her eyes, which were a loving and lighthearted blue. A part of me is writing this for the memory. So I will never forget her. So I will never forget that day. I don't know if I will make this a real story, or if I will continue this. If I have the heart to recall more stories, more memories of what my life once was. I don't really care if this becomes popular or not, but I'd like to tell all the memories, the boring ones too, with anybody that will bother to read them. Some of these will be short, some of these will be sad, or happy, I'm not sure. All of these are sad for me to be honest.