a little longer than usual, written after a visit last year, the grave of my grandfather. I reread it today and I liked it.
When Grandma died, all family members went to see her in the chapel to say goodbye to her. I thought it was a very bad taste.
Everyone wore black, women even wore hats that they covered their faces with a network. Everyone was crying. All saying what a good woman was, what a shame he died so young, what a great loss we suffered. When everyone knewyour name. They put the glass, locked, gave it to my parents and placed wreaths of flowers with messages such as "never forget", "rest in peace."
After one week of the funeral no longer remembered her. My mother said she always spoke with his grandmother when he prayed. That told him how we were and what we did. And she was proud of us.
Even now I do not understand how he could communicate with her. She was already dead. We are not supposed to talk to the dead.
was Christmas. When it is assumed, the son of God was born. The son who killed those they protected. We went to church.
"Remember your dead people. Pray for them and for God's mercy. "
What we must pray for them? They're dead, are with the Lord. They pray for us and help us make ends
I obeyed.
"No," I scolded, "with the other hand, son of the devil!"
did not understand.