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It was weird.
Wearing a suit I mean. I didn't even own one so I borrowed my dad's which made it even weirder. I think when you reach that point in your life when you're a guy and sharing clothes with other guys, it's signals that life is shitty. Not just because you're wearing something someone else has already sweat on, it's everything else. The clothes thing is just something that alerts you that you've sunken to an all time low.
I watched the vast room pile in with other guys wearing suits and guys not wearing suits and girls who weren't guys but were wearing suits.

Zinnia had been quite popular.

Popular. That's another weird thing. It's strange how that word could mean so much to one person and mean shit to someone else. It's like pudding. There are some people who just say "yeah, cool, food" and then there are those who beg their moms every time they drop by the grocery store to buy a whole box of it.

I think it's just the whole day that's got to me. More than once has someone made an excuse that they had to powered their nose or something just because I'd rambled on about freaking pudding.
I felt a strong hand clap me on the back before the rest of the arm draped over my shoulders.

"Isn't this a big pile of bullshit, huh?" That was Arolt. I didn't have to turn to face him. I knew by the smell of the alcohol lingering around him. Okay, lingering was a little bit of an understatement. It smelt like he lay down in a bathtub full of vodka, passed out in it for three days and then downed himself in a bottle of ice cold Budweiser. It was a mystery how he was standing right now.

"What, the guy standing next to me?" I answered a little too peevishly that his drunken state managed to picked up on it.

"Get off my case, Grandma. Uncle Hal's loaded, of course he was going to pay for everyone's drinks at the bar."

"Arolt, this is your own sister's goddam funeral. If you had any decency, you could've at least shown up sober or not at all." I'll admit, I was too harsh on the guy. Before Hell Week, Arolt had been stone cold sober for eight months. Maybe it's not a year or five, but you should've seen him the last time he got himself into trouble because he'd taken too much liquor.
But that's the thing about grief, about guilt. They'll eat up and destroy just about everyone and then have everyone destroy each other with resent to clean up its own sadistic mess.

I didn't think about that though as I shoved his arm off me and exit the room. You never do until you've walked away and the screaming in your ears stop long enough for you to finally think straight. I felt bad right away when that point happened. But admitting that didn't help a damn thing.