and the shit I learned.
  1. Hemingway got death wrong; there's no honorable way to die. Whether it comes to you on a muddy hill, or via a pole colliding with the front end of your car, death doesn't fall on any measurable scale of good or bad.
  2. Death and subsequently, funerals, are more intimate than any gesture of love I have ever seen. Maybe it's the finality of it, or maybe it's because she was 23, and her life was carelessly and violently ripped away from her.
  3. Her body, grey and achingly still, seen from the farthest back corner of the room I could possibly stuff myself into.
  4. Laughter, rising and erupting that stillness from the group of girls that surrounded the casket. The brief hush of silence that fell directly afterwards.
  5. Her sisters hands, gripping a curling iron.
  6. The heaviness of her boyfriends body, the way it crumpled and collapsed; his muffled sobs, filling the room and pushing all the air out.
  7. The upright, stiff backs of her family as they kneel and bow before the table of offerings, fruit and bowls of rice piled high, wedged between flowers, and red burning candles.
  8. The monks, singing, humming, the ring of the metal bowl. The soft, struggling sound of her fathers voice.
  9. flowers aren't meant to add beauty—they stress the impermanacy by which we are all graced with.
  10. Meta-list: shit I don't wanna hear: it was her boyfriends fault anyways. it's okay, her family hasn't seen her in five years anyways. do you wanna go get ice cream?