The funeral procession left the lot, one by despairing one. Wails of misery still echoed between the oak trees. Everyone grieves differently. Hoards of black in mourning had trudged slowly to their sun-baked cars which now moved with a weight nonphysical. Hovering above the ground in a can-opening contraption balanced the casket. I could hardly remember the waxy figure in there. They had not put it into the ground, and as the cemetery emptied, the unease of disclosure followed suit. When there were no more grievers nor the sounds of wet faces, he let go of my hand, leaned me over a family gravestone and flipped up my dress. The gravel of the headrest marker chafed my ribs and letters of an unknown surname imprinted my upper thighs. Now, other sounds echoed among the oaks. There was no shame in this, no disrespect. Young bodies are sometimes eager to be noticed, and demand to be sated. All the Kleenex had already been used for tears, so I just smoothed my dress over the grind burn and righted my heels. He laid a sunflower over the casket and took my hand once more. Everyone grieves differently.