I was the first to show.

Me of all people, I was the first out of a dozen lousy members of my ‘family’ to show my face.

‘If only he could see me now’ i mumble under my breath in a raw sense of bitter joy.

That was the first time I smiled since Grandpa passed. It almost felt criminal to seek even a smidge of pleasure in his absence.

Suppose that’s why I avoided talking entirely and shut my doors to the world ,that feels so distant now.

I readjust the car mirror and catch my gaze.

This half awake person staring back is a stranger looking with a washed out pale complexion.

‘Breathe Lydia’, I blurt out in a weighted sigh,

‘You just got to get through today’.

Firm affirmations are the only thing that can just about get me through in one piece.

This was the funeral -

A final farewell to my beloved Grandpa

who deserves a thousand bouquets of flowers straws across his grave stone.

So why am I rooted to this seat?

I am literally unable to get my incapable butt out the car and offer my condolences to my family.

But I can’t face them.

All their blank faces blind to my existence,

Acting as though I am a seven year old who’s being put on the naughty step because of my attitude.

The truth is that they know the reality of why Grandpa is gone - what happened that night

because of me.

I feel the tension tug at my skin the moment I step outside the vehicle. The air feels thinner and tight around ,my already suffocating, collar. My legs are feathers attached to my torso, lightly drifting along a cobbled pavement, easily taken out by a mere gust of wind.

I enter this stone-cold cacophony of a holy building and fix my concentration on locating a seat - preferably somewhere cornered off from anyone’s viewpoint.

Just as I swiftly make my way down the thin aisle, the bottom of my wavy dress get’s caught in a strangers handbag.

I jolt backwards and nearly fall flat on my back before rapidly recollecting myself.

‘Goodness’, I spurt out without looking up,

‘Sorry I didn’t see that ther-‘

I pause having realised that the owner of this black, velvet bag was in fact my very own mother.

‘Oh shit’ was the only two words swirling around my mind at this current moment.

Her eyes had trapped me in a sort of dead lock

but also it was clear she was equally as surprised to see me.

We haven’t spoken in weeks.

She was scarred by grandpas death deeper than I was.

She blames me for what happened - the crash.

Who am I to judge? I was the one driving the dam car.

I can’t explain it, but somehow seeing my mothers eyes pushed me backwards a million miles and suddenly I am seven years old again.

These eyes looking back at me are unfamiliar and hollow. Those eyes once felt like home, now it’s like looking into an abandoned shack with empty framed windows and damaged floorboards.

‘M- Mother, um how are you holding up?’

Just like that, she plucked her bag from beneath my dress and draw back to her seat without a glance.

This emptiness was indescribable - almost as if my entire body weight doubled and I could drop to the floor like a sack of potatoes.

I felt as if I had been outcasted by my own mother and banished to the shadows, to the corners of this rather melancholy church.

Soon enough the church is brimming with more people. I noticed my blood relations scattered across the building.

None of us stood together, a fragmented family even before Grandpa died.

It hasn’t always been this way - me and my cousins were close growing up. I remember Christmas together so vividly. Playing monopoly in the late evening hours whilst the adults drunkenly sipped on glasses of red wine, laughing at our childish competitiveness. Even when separated, we would often dial each other on the landlines and gossip about the latest events for ages.

Now look at us! Gathered at our own Grandfathers funeral, and we couldn’t be further apart in the same room if we tried.

This tension sat between us all like a thick fog.

Suddenly, came a jarring realisation from deep in my bones that told me to break down this ,rather horrific, wall that had built itself with the bricks of our differences.

I needed to heal this family’s scars one way or another, for the sake of our beloved Grandpa.

Before I know it, my legs have come to a stance and I am making my way across the floor back towards my mother

I gulp down the urge to pivot back to my chair.

She doesn’t stop to look my way but I know she has seen me. I stand next to her - hoping she’ll offer me one word.

Instead, she shifts ever so slightly to her right, freeing up a small space.

Awkwardly I take up the offering and perch beside her - now just one inch apart.

Together we both look forward, to the alter.

The tension strains on us both.

And just before I am about to sprint out the hall, a familiar hand rests on my knee.

I don’t look down but my eyes widen with surprise. Without a second thought, my hand wonders towards hers and lightly rests on hers.

‘oh how I missed this motherly touch’

Neither of us speak a word, but hear our breathing get heavy.

Somehow the church looks brighter all of a sudden. The sunlight pours in through the stain glass, over the alter where the coffin lay. Tears prick my eyes again but this time I let them roll away, down my cheeks. I look down to our arms - they are entwined and it all hits me instantaneously….

we can break this wall down together.