I was honestly never that close to my grandmother. She had eight children; my father being one of them, and she was undoubtedly an object or mecca rather in my life. She was big on church so as a result, I would see her every Sunday. This would not be to see her in particular but mostly to have an oasis to escape my drudging church service that started from 11 and ended later than 2. For me, my time at church is generally greater when I do go, mainly because of that fact that I am considered to be a "Sunday School scholar." Eehh I honestly don't mind the cheesy nickname because hell....my forceful rebuttals and crafting of remarks continuously help me standout in AP English. When I would go to Grandma's house the first thing I would always do would give the nearly paralyzed woman an awkward hug in the same shy boyish; "Hey Grandma!," as if I had any regard for her. She died recently, and initially when I was told by mother after a serene Cross Country practice the news proved to be irrelevant and unimportant to me. Her funeral was incredibly fabulous, with New Orleans style bands; blasting powerful brass instruments in decadent intonation, top notch choirs, and even with the preaching by my father. Everything felt insanely light and airy. I suspected for her burial the next day to be the main aspect that would drive me insane. The burial was on a malevolent Monday, and I practically had to beg my mother to allow me to miss school for the burial of my own grandmother. Isn't that so strange? The burial service was just all of her children and closest.. I mean closest relatives. However, this ritual proved to be the most spiritual and solemn. Everything leading up seemed to be a blur.... Then her "burial" came. For the most part everyone was just being incredibly quiet and shaking their heads in a solemn manner. I couldn't help but wonder if it was for the sadness their hearts contained, or just out of pure pretentiousness. I guess my oldest aunt's excuse for not being as sympathetic would be she was mainly responsible for the hospital and funeral arrangements. Perhaps she shed a last tear behind the darkest curtains of night and the gloomy ominous which can be day. I had not. After the pall-bearer said the last of words, they gracefully closed her casket. I was trying to concoct a fathomable reason in my head for why we were near an enormous stone and not the grass. In a millionth of a second they pushed her casket in the slot in the mausoleum. They entire ritual seemed to be very unfinished and left me shaking my head. I began to feel an intense rush of nausea and uneasiness flood my body. As they inserted her body in the slot of the mausoleum I found myself crying uncontrollably the way a little boy does when he scrapes his knee. I continuously asked myself; "Why are you so sad, you never even knew her very well?" Now I feel like we simply had an unspoken relationship. Even when she became paralyzed my acknowledgement of her prison and hers of mine proved to be great. As I shed tears my Aunt Beverly hugged me tight; whispering, "It's gonna be okay Reece, we'll get through this together." As family members rushed to my rescue, grabbing me, embracing me, on that chilled September morning, their warmth was added coolness. It seemed in vain. For the reason I was crying was not because I missed her; but more so because her burial was not really a burial and it seemed unfinished. As I left, I began saying to myself that she is gone and we can move on. I guess this gave me a sense of closure. In my awkward boyish tone: "Bye Grandma, love you!"