I don’t remember Harmony’s funeral. Wait, I lie. I do remember some things. Like the plain room, the color of churned butter. The metal chairs with carpeted seats. All aligned facing the open casket. The slow stream of weeping people, that treaded down the center. Reluctantly out of obligation, respect or whatever, to stare into her empty face. A mask. But this is every funeral. I wondered how many people were genuine. I tried to look into their eyes, but I was the one who looked away. I was her favorite and I didn’t feel a thing.

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