It was a perfectly beautiful day in Orlando, Florida. The air was clear and free from humidity, the leaves on the palm trees glistened in the golden sunbeams, and it was a mild 75 degrees with a slight breeze – not bad for mid-May. It would have been the perfect day to play shuffleboard, go swimming, or visit Disneyworld, the happiest place on Earth. But as we drove onward, my throat grew dry as emptiness and silence began to sink in. On such a beautiful day, I could feel the aura of death around me.

We pulled into the parking lot of the cemetery and the five of us piled out of the car – me, my parents, my brother, Adam, and my grandmother. The rabbi was already waiting for us outside the gates. We each lined up and shook his hand in turn. He said the same thing to each of us: “I’m so sorry for your loss.” I never knew such an apology could sound so empty. I tried to be polite and smile as if to thank him. Just keep it together, I told myself.

But as I was about to walk away, the rabbi asked me, “Are you sure you don’t want to speak today?”

I wanted to respond, well how could I? What is there that is left for me to say? But the more I thought to myself, the more memories came flooding back. I remembered the unique twinkle in his eye and heard his laugh booming in my head. I recalled his mumbling and singing to himself as he walked around the house. I thought back to him showing me his hat collection and his favorite hat of all: his treasured fishing hat. I saw him once again sprawled out on the couch, asleep, only for him to wake up and claim defensively that he was “resting his eyes.” I heard his last words to me echoing in my head, as he said that he loved me very much and that when he got better he would come see me in my next show. These moments in time, these memories, were mine and mine alone to appreciate, and I didn’t feel the need to make such personal moments public for the world to see and hear. So I said to the rabbi, “Oh yes, I’m sure,” and walked away from both the rabbi and my emotions.

And so we waited. We waited as a strange man pulled my grandma and uncle over to the coffin, and we waited as my grandma proceeded to bawl hysterically. We watched and waited as my mom warned me, “Don’t go over there. You don’t want to look at the body or that’s all you will ever remember about him.” I waited with Adam as my dad consoled me, saying, “Your mom will be very emotional today, so try to stay strong.” I waited by myself as cousins I never knew I had hugged me and shook my hand. I felt numb, as if I was hiding my pain. I tried to tune out the world, tried to ignore the fact that my grandfather was dead, tried to forget how to cry.

As the rabbi started to speak, I squeezed Adam’s hand so hard that I made him squirm with pain. I did what my mom told me to do – let the rabbi’s empty words go in one ear and out the other. I struggled to sniffle my tears away and even succeeded in suppressing my emotions for a time, but my ears perked up as the rabbi mentioned me and my brother. He told the world that we were behind my grandfather’s will to live. The dam holding back the grief inside me finally collapsed, and the entire audience turned their heads to stare me down as my nose leaked, a waterfall of tears ran down my face, and I clamored for my unused pack of tissues. Of course, when the rabbi referred to me as “Melissa,” I chuckled, but once the rabbi adjusted his bifocals, corrected my name, and continued, the tears kept coming as I tried and failed to regain my composure.

One by one, person after person came to the podium to share their memories and open themselves up. The day as a whole was a blur of tears and tissues, but I do remember how relatives, former business partners, and neighbors all had something touching and moving to say. Perhaps the biggest tearjerker of the day was my mom reading a speech written by my grandmother, which told the stories of my grandparents’ first date and the card my grandmother received on the first Jewish New Year she spent with her husband. The infinite amount of love my grandfather had for his wife was incomprehensible. What was so amazing was how a seemingly ordinary man with a seemingly ordinary life made such an extraordinary impact on the lives of so many different people. I was, I will admit, selfish for keeping my memories, my personal treasures, all to myself, but watching those who loved him and felt inspired to share that love with all of us was enlightening. As my grandfather’s coffin was lowered into the earth, I felt a new sense of closure. I felt in my heart that the pain and sadness of the day had finally passed, that a new chapter of life was beginning. I wish that I had spoken at least to someone, for I realized that it felt good to cry. Releasing my emotions and letting down my walls felt cleansing for the soul.

The five of us piled back into the car. It was still a beautiful day, but it felt different. The sun seemed brighter, the air clearer, the breeze softer. The world seemed lighter and happier than before as we drove off, leaving the aura of death and a trail of tissues behind us.