Nevara
I had said the word funeral three times before noon and hated it more each time.
By the fourth, I refused to say it again.
Every time the word left my mouth, I could almost hear Michelle objecting to it. It sounded too grim, too formal, too much like something she would have mocked mercilessly while making everyone around her laugh. The more I sat with it, the more certain I became that if Michelle could somehow witness us planning a solemn funeral in her name, she would complain about the entire thing.
Likely loudly.
That thought made me laugh and ache in the same breath.
I was on the phone with the funeral director reviewing printed program proofs when I stopped in the middle of a sentence and said, “No. I hate that.”
The poor man hesitated.
“Hate… what, Luna?”
I leaned b
