Life vs. Death: and the pain in between

Everything felt uneasy. Everyone felt out of place. People of every age, some of their faces I haven't seen in over a decade. All dressed in black Sunday best, all with wide smiles – pretending to care deeply about the lives of one another. It breeds discomfort.

There was nothing around to distract me from the people. The walls bland, coloured so lightly fair. Pure and cold.

Leaning over in her seat, my mother brings herself down beside my ear to whisper, "Rosanna, stop fidgeting."

"I still don't see why I have to be the grandkid to go share." My feet swayed violently beneath me, the agitation could be forced out no other way being stuck in these pews. Mum clearly wasn't in the mood to argue.

The only thing eye catching in the awful place happened to also be dying. Irony at its finest, even at the end. Chosen for their brightness, these poor innocents are scattered around all who stand in the face of death. These small beauties, with their lives forfeit, are there solely for the distant hope of sparking some joy amongst the living by way of their appearance and scent.

Hard to believe people could argue over such a thing. Roses! No, tulips! Ha! Relatives are always the ficklest of creatures. But still - whether human, equine, or amphibian – the nature of the living when in the presence of death will always be unpredictable. I mean, look in this very room. It's almost strange when you think about it too long; a room packed of people all gathered around a corpse.

But it's not odd at all to those in the room, warming the pews. Looking to one another for understanding of the grief within their beating hearts. The anguish running through their veins like lead that makes the heart heavy with sadness. The anger. The bitterness. The love. The loss. The pain. The guilt.

The world of the living, and the shear raw emotion of it.

Who wouldn't stand in individualised solidarity with those around, to remind both them and yourself that you aren't alone?

"And now Rosanna will come to share about Harry, on behalf of all the grandchildren." Squeezing by aunties and cousins into the aisle, I am forced to meet the eyes of the funeral director on my walk to the front.

"When seeing someone you once knew lie in a coffin, but knowing that it's no longer them – what does one do? What are you meant to do in that situation? Cry from loss? Do you cry because they've lost their life, or because you've lost them?" I briefly make eye contact with my mum, and see she is both nervous of what I might say, and deep in grief.

Sparkling rays of rainbow shine through the stained-glass panes, giving a soft glow of vibrant vitality to all it touches.

Bright. Bright light. Bright colours. Bright flowers.

"Out of all of us, he's the one to have lost the most. Time to spend on his creations in his little workshop; lost the joy of seeing creativity come to life in his hands." I feel the tears well, and my voice shake – but I don't let either win.

Life. Life in veins. Life in flowers. Life in people.

"Most of all he has lost his life. Everything. And we sit here and weep because we lost him. He lost all of us. And what do we say to that? We'll miss him." I can feel it all. The anger. The bitterness. The love. The loss. The pain. The guilt.

Death. Death in corpses. Death in bodies. Death in life.

Same as life, it will always be there. When the formalities are done, and the family and friends have left and forgotten, the flowers will be thrown away as they slowly die. As time goes by and it goes from one funeral to the next, the floors will wear, the walls will crack. Years will tick by same as before, but now there's crinkles in new places, and then wrinkles, then... Then, once even your own mind has failed you, it will take from you the very emotions that made you human.

"But, you know what I'm gonna say? I'm sorry Grandpa. I'm sorry you can't paint anymore. I'm sorry you can't play with your little grandkids. I'm sorry you're not here anymore. But I promise to always keep imagination and creativity existing in your workshop. I promise to keep the little ones smiling and laughing with your same bad jokes. I promise that even though you may not be here, we'll make sure the world still has your spirit in it."

Some call it cruel, some call it kind - but the wise know it to be both, fickle in a way we will never understand. But, call it what you will, death is death. And one day; as you are standing over a dead body, speaking out into a large crowd of the living, you will never know that more clearly.