When I met with the funeral home people they spoke in low tones and stood stooping slightly forward like old English butlers do in movies.  I assumed this was meant to give me a sense of ease and comfort. This was not the impression they gave me. What they did give me were two brochures;

I did not cry. I hadn't realized this until I stood over my father's grave, staring down onto his coffin covered with single flowers and a light dusting of snow that had just begun to fall. Not one tear. It was cold. I flipped the collar of my coat and pulled it around my face