Logan
It rained the morning we buried my mother. It felt like it was reflecting my dour mood as the onslaught of rain ceaselessly wetted the day.
This downpour was the sort of cold, relentless rain that seeps into your bones and stays there. Many of the other attendees were shivering against it, clutching their black attire tightly around them to attempt to stave off the worst of it.
I stood at the edge of the grave where her lacquered oak casket had been lowered several minutes before, my hands clenched so tightly around the black umbrella that my knuckles ached. Water dripped from the brim, tracing icy trails down my neck and dripping down my face like tears.
But I wasn't crying. I hadn’t yet. I felt hollowed by the news still, even days later. It felt like it couldn’t be real, li
