The church looked like one of those grand buildings you see in movies. It had double doors and beautiful eccentric stained glass windows that towered over you. As you stepped through the doors, you entered a huge foyer crowded with people. Little treats sat out untouched by people who didn’t know if eating them was appropriate. Poster boards stood silently on tables all over the room with pictures of once happy moments cut short by a death. From the time I stepped foot into the church, to the time I left, only love came out of everyone’s hearts. All these strange people who supposedly knew me came up to me and give me their condolences like neatly wrapped gifts: some made of glass, fragile with every word and others wrapped with purple bows or contained confetti, all for one purpose, to make me happier.

A moment like this sticks in your mind forever, like gum to the sidewalk. When someone in your family passes on, it leaves a hole in your heart. Part of you is broken, but if the suffering in no longer there then part of you is glad that it’s over. My aunt made an impact on your life, whether you knew her for five minutes or your whole life and for me, a short 12 years. Over five hundred people showed up for her memorial service. I don’t know about you, but that says a lot about her character.

As I sit in a pew, sadness drifts through my mind. Why isn't sadness consuming my body? Is it because I'm happy she's no longer in pain? Now though, the tables have turned and everyone in my family is in pain. Not so much a physical pain, but a stabbing pain to your heart and soul. Why is it that we mourn her loss, when in reality we'll all be gone one day too? I still don't know yet, but I see my mother crying two people down from me. The weird thing is though is that she's crying, but at the same time she's happy. The expression painted across my sisters face says confusion, kind of like how I'm feeling right now. I look behind me into the sea of faces. A few familiar ones pop out to me but so many strange new ones out number them.

It's now time for my mother to speak and I hope she doesn't cry. It's not something I like seeing. My aunt had a sense of humor as well as a knack for theater. By knack I mean, theater ran her life. She had her own theater company and put on shows every year with teens from all over the area. My sister and I took part in some of the theater and music classes she taught. Then, my mom begins to tell one of my favorite stories of her and me. It starts off with us in the car, me the age of four or five. We had just driven out of the grocery store parking lot right across from all the coffee shops downtown. As we drive down the road I begin to say "Hey Aunt Susannah, Buckle Bear says to buckle up!" So of course my aunt replies with a "Good job Helena, that's very good!" not thinking much of it. Then a minute later I say again "Aunt Susannah, Buckle Bear says to buckle up!" In reply my Aunt goes "Yes Helena, I heard you, that's very good!" As I began to say the same thing a third time, my Aunt looks in her rear view mirror and yells "Shoot! You don't have a seat belt on!" She quickly pulled over, buckled me in and then went on with the day. When my mom found out about the seatbelt later she chuckled and didn't understand why I didn't just say it's off. As my mom finished up the story, everyone had a laugh. For someone who's always on top of things and well organized, she acted like quite the airhead.

Once the laughter died down, my mom finished up her speech with only a few tears and returned to the pew next to the rest of us. Soon I hear my name being called out from the gaudy gold microphone on the podium at the front of the church. Butterflies erupt in my stomach like a bomb but then quickly go away. I close my eyes and take a deep breath in. Visualizing every movement behind my eyes like a movie, I exhale. Slowly I move my sweaty palms on the carpety blue cushions that rests’ on the bench to push myself up. Putting one foot in front of the other I make my way up to the front of the church, with my sister by my side. I become increasingly aware of how poufy my ballerina tutu is. As I look up from the floor I see hundreds of faces staring back at me and my stomach drops, maybe even further than the floor. The music begins to play and my sister and I start to dance. Every ounce of doubt or nervousness goes away. I forget that I am in front of such a large crowd of people and start to focus on the gift that my aunt provided me. She didn't just help pay for my classes, she gave me a life full of dance and a way to express my feelings when friends don't listen, sort of like our little secret. The sound of clapping brings me back to reality and I finally understand why she put my sister and me and dance. I'm so grateful that she did. If she hadn't, chances are low of my sister even going to college and majoring in dance. As silly as it may seem, dance is somewhat therapeutic to me.

My relatives finish their speeches but my thoughts linger on untold memories. Everyone knew my aunt by her long brown hair, always pulled back into a braid and nearly touching the floor. She had the singing voice of an angel. It was one of those voices that you never forgot because of its beauty. And even when she spoke her words were as delicate as flowers, always careful not to harm you with whatever she decided to say. Just as delicate as those words, the condolences added up in my head. The strangers love and sorrow now making sense. With such an influential person in your life, how do you not feel remorse for someone who loses them? Gifts she gave, now gone. Then slowly, the thought of sadness drifts back into my head. The funny stories now become memories of her, and what she left behind. Those trips to Wendy's for Frosty's, dance lessons, going swimming, and arts and crafts now become a significant part of our past. But I now know how lucky I am to have known such a wonderful woman.