I wore red to his funeral.

Ignoring all the disapproving glares and painful comments, muttered carefully within earshot, I stood amongst people I had never met and who, in all probability, had never met him. I didn’t set out to annoy them, it wasn’t as if I had woken up and decided that being hated was the order of the day. Though I know he would have loved it, loved the irony of aggravating his absent relatives with the same ‘wanton impropriety’ that had led them to shun him.

Besides, I wore red for him. Before I met him I had always worn dull, muted colours: hiding in the foreground. He had brought me colour, had woken me up and made me visible. And red was his favourite. So the day before the funeral, I took all my savings down to the prom shop on the high street, the one we passed everyday as he walked me home. I bought the nicest dress, shawl and shoes: all in a deep blood red.

Fidgeting with my bracelet, absently sifting the small, cold charms through my fingers, I watched as the coffin was lowered into the gaping maw of the retort, the furnace. Through the windows, I could see bright, clear sky with only the bending of the trees to indicate the harsh winds of January. I felt angry at the world, for seeming so at peace on such a day. I wanted the world to mourn as I did; I wanted the skies to blacken, the clouds to open and rain to drown the earth.

I wanted too much, I had always wanted too much.

His uncle by marriage prattled on, speaking of morality and mortality and pointless platitudes. Relatives nodded as this fat, bloated whale made excuses for a nephew he had never met. They had scorned him, left him with nothing and now that he was gone, they preached forgiveness and regret. I blinked back hot tears of anger and pain: I would not cry: I wouldn’t weaken in front of them.

Then it was over.

The glaring guests poured out of the funeral home, heading quickly to their cars, desperate to get to their homes and away from their pretence of grief. I stayed, meandering amongst eroded gravestones and un-weeded plots. I paused behind a towering statue of an angel, arms wide and welcoming…the effect was diminished by the ivy that had grown around the benevolent seraphim, near covering it entirely. Hidden in the shadow of this aged guardian, I began to cry.

Dark rivulets of mascara run down my face. I felt trapped in a memory, I had cried so much before I met him. I hung my head, watching blackened tears fall onto the dark, wild grass. Grief had turned to pain, which galled to anger. I had once controlled every emotion, simply reined in every feeling: he had taken that away from me. Stripped my walls away, my protection, and brought me, naked, into the light. And now, he was gone. I had no armour, no protection and the light seared my fledgling heart.

Tears dried by the impartial wind, I was still for what seemed an age. Worn out, I stared into middle distance, red ribbons from my dress streamed in my peripheral vision like pennants. I closed my eyes, feeling the wind in my hair and smiled softly, the warmth of his memory penetrating the smog of grief. I would miss him, always…but I wouldn’t let his loss mar the gift he had given me. I wouldn’t cower back into my shell; I wouldn’t hide from the light he had shone into my comforting dark.

I opened my eyes, and began to walk towards the gates, wrapping my shawl around me against the chill. Almost on cue, an icy droplet flecked my face, followed by another, and another…The soft spray fell all around me, a grey curtain on the world that filled the air with the fresh scent of the earth. I smiled softly, looking around at the beauty of the place, through this shining mist.

And I walked through the rain: like I had, once, with a boy made of light.