This for Cal's Character Contest. It uses image 6, and the word funeral (31).
Rainbows and Funerals
Floral patterns adorned the tapestries of the salon, a room full of oppression and stuffy, crowded thoughts. It was furnished with old mahogany and an old red velvet daybed. Amelia had no place in it. She was young and free, a girl of five, too young to understand the reason for the distance relatives who wore black and appeared at her grandmother’s door.
They were all jostled together in the small room, bumping into one another and the center table laid with cheese and crackers. Amelia found herself next to this table and took a piece of cheddar and put it in her mouth, enjoying the sharp taste of her favorite cheese. It reminded her of Christmas when her grandma would put out dozens of cheeses, all smelling different and some tasting awful. An aunt—Patrica or maybe Patsy—came to the table and smiled at her as she also took a snack. The smile was tight. It didn’t reach Aunt P’s eyes like a true smile should. Amelia began to smile back, but the aunt turned and fought her way through the bodies to the other side of the room.
Amelia watched her go, wondering why her aunt had faked a smile. She could think of no reason to pretend. You smile when you’re happy and cry when you’re sad. That’s how it was. But somehow her aunt had it wrong, actually, lots of her family had it wrong. Amelia could tell the room was full of sadness, of something stronger than sadness, but they were all still trying to smile. Sorrow and grieving were words her five year old mind didn’t know.
“Amelia,” called her mother from the kitchen doorway. “Come here.”
Amelia made her way to the kitchen with many excuse me’s. Uncle Phil nearly knocked her over while turning, glass in each hand, from the punch bowl back to Aunt P, but Amelia ducked. Then she was in the kitchen where her mom and grandma were preparing refreshments for the family.
“Go up to your room and change into your dress, honey. I put everything on your bed for you,” she told Amelia.
“Do I have to wear tights?” asked the daughter, a grimace on her face.
“Yes. You wear tights with a dress,” replied her mom.
“But I like my socks,” protested Amelia, “they’re more comfy and pretty.”
Her mom was about to turn back to the new platter of refreshments she had to take out to the salon but stopped and studied the socks in question. They were rainbow knee high socks. There was no way around the bright colors that wrapped around her daughter’s legs. And there was no question that they were unacceptable for a funeral.
“You can’t wear them. Go change,” she ordered and started to lift the platter.
Amelia watched her mom leave the kitchen, her eyebrows furrowed. There was no way around a direct command like that. It was an ultimatum. Change your socks or suffer your mom’s wrath and have them forcibly removed. She sighed. There was no way to fight it.
Amelia left the kitchen through the other door, took a left, and climbed the stairs. She found all her clothes laid out just like her mom had said. She took off her rainbow socks and tossed them onto the bed. The colors contrasted sharply with the all black outfit. Black dress, black tights, black shoes, black headband. Why was it all black?
She knew that they were going to a funeral, even if she didn’t understand the connation of the word. And she knew her grandpa had died. Dad had told her that he had fallen asleep and didn’t wake up, and Mom had said he was in Heaven now with the angels and Jesus. Grandma had cried silent tears as they told her all this, and soon her tears had infected all of them. But when Amelia was in bed that night, she had stopped crying. If grandpa was in Heaven, why did they have to cry? Wasn’t Heaven where everyone wanted to be? If Heaven was perfect then shouldn’t they be happy that grandpa was happy? And so, Amelia didn’t cry anymore. She missed her grandpa, but she smiled when she thought of him laughing with Jesus and flying with the angels.
Amelia eyed the socks and then her tights. Her decision was one of five year old innocence.
The salon was emptying as all the mourners left for the church. Amelia’s mom and dad waited for her with her grandma by the door, the last ones to leave. They heard Amelia descend the stairs. Her new shoes clicked on the kitchen’s linoleum floor and then the wood of the salon. She walked right up to her mom and smiled a smile that was a missing front tooth.
Her mom was the first to notice but the last to laugh. Dad helped grandma out the door as he shook his head and the old woman wheezed a chuckle. Mom said nothing about the rainbow socks bulging out from under Amelia’s tights, shining with their usual brightness despite the black, but laughed as she ushered Amelia out of the house and closed the door.
