The slight breeze rustled the black skirt of Emily's little dress, a skirt that ended short enough to show her shiny plastic black buckle-up shoes. Her nut-brown hair floated on the wind. She looked into the open grave at her feet. She had watched the adults cry, and hug, and kiss, and grieve, all for this woman in this long wooden box. Emily didn't understand it. Then again, as the adults thought, what would a four-year-old really know about death? At this age, they reasoned, it must seem that people lived forever. Well, Emily, although too young to describe death, or explain how it made her feel, could understand that her Grandma Winnie was gone, and wouldn't ever come back. She knew that something that used to be Grandma Winnie was lying in the box in a hole in the ground. What she didn't understand was why they were mourning for the thing in the box when that thing was clearly not her grandmother.
She looked at the flower in her hand, and let it fall softly into the hole and on top of the oak coffin. Then she turned away and went to find her mother. She made her way through the sea of long black skirts and trousers until she found a woman standing with her back to the grave and the people, and looking out at the other graves. Emily ran up to her, and put her arms around the woman's legs.
"Mama," she said, "are you crying?"
The woman looked down at her daughter, tears glistening on her face, and leaned down to pick her up.
"People cry when they're sad," she replied, holding Emily on her hip, "And sometimes they cry when they're happy."
"You're happy, mama?" asked Emily, not understanding.
"Yes, baby," said her mother, "I'm happy that Grandma Winnie is in heaven."
Emily put her arms around her mother's neck, and rested her head on her shoulder. "I'm happy she's in heaven, too."
"That's good, sweetie," said her mother, stroking her back. They started to walk away, back toward the church. "Wow," said her mom, "You're getting big. You must be growing up, huh?"