funeral for a friend

you take out your wrinkled suit from the back of the closet with a sigh. the one you only wear for funerals and job interviews.

I sit under the only broken light, three rows from the back, and wonder if I'm in a dream...

she wears a dress that hasn't fit in years, but anything besides black just wouldn't work today. putting on mascara, detached from her very hands, trying not to think about the rest of her life without him. she crossed herself before sitting down for the first time in a decade.

and the children smile, playing in the pews, just like a sunday would find them.