# 4 Stories Written by Life

It was already dark outside when we arrived at the mortuary for the evening prayers before my great-grandfather's funeral.

Four generations of my family gathered on either side of the coffin. My immediate family and I were the last to arrive before the rest of the mourning community entered.

A large floral arrangement rested on top of the coffin. Flower wreaths stood to the right, and two bouquets of orange lilies had been brought to be placed in vases at the foot of the coffin.

Before we arrived, my extended family had made a decision.

My older sister and I would each hold one of the bouquets throughout the entire forty-five-minute prayer service. We were instructed to stand facing the community, holding the flowers with both hands at waist height.

When my sister asked,

"Why aren't the boys holding the flowers? They're older than we are?"

one of my aunts dropped her gaze to the floor.

The one person who could have spoken up simply answered:

"Because you're girls."

At six years old, I didn't have the words for what I felt.

I only knew that something about the answer hurt.

It made me feel smaller somehow.

Less important.

It didn't seem fair.

At home, my mother often told my older brother, my sister, and me that we were all equally important. She wanted us girls to grow up to be independent women one day.

Yet standing there, I couldn't understand why the boys were allowed to sit while we were expected to stand.

I remember looking at the boys and wondering what made them different from us.

At six and seven years old, we accepted the bouquets and our task.

My sister was placed on the right side of the coffin. Quietly, I tried to follow her.

I wanted to stand beside her.

She was my safe person.

Instead, I felt a large hand on my shoulder guiding me firmly to the opposite side.

I didn't dare speak up.

I didn't ask if I could stand beside my sister.

I didn't cry.

I had already heard many times that I was sensitive and cried easily, so I stood where I was told and tried my best.

The rest of the family took their seats according to age, generation, and family hierarchy.

My eyes searched for my older brother. He sat comfortably beside our oldest male cousin in the row behind the parents.

I felt separated from everyone else.

I didn't want to stand there.

Outside our home, I had already learned that I was expected to behave, be polite, and not make a fuss.

Looking back, it feels as though another role was added that evening. Two little girls were made responsible for helping the family look good in front of the community.

It wasn't really about the flowers.

It was about appearances.

So I did what I had always done.

I stayed quiet and did as I was told.

Earlier that day, I had experienced something I couldn't understand.

I saw my great-grandfather walking up our driveway wearing the same old hat he always wore. He passed the kitchen window as though nothing had changed.

I saw him clearly.

As I told my mother what I had just seen, she continued ironing our clothes for the funeral.

Filled with grief and focused on preparing for the funeral, she reminded me that he had died.

But I knew what I had seen.

No one could convince me otherwise.

At that age, I saw spirits as clearly as I saw myself in the mirror.

To me, there was no difference.

I didn't know that seeing spirits was an ability. I didn't think of it as anything extraordinary.

It simply happened.

Standing in the mortuary, I kept wondering:

If he's alive, why is he lying in that coffin?

I was genuinely confused.

Only hours earlier, I had seen him outside our house. To my six-year-old mind, both things couldn't be true at the same time.

The room slowly filled with people dressed in black.

Many were crying.

Others wore expressions so serious that they frightened me.

I looked from the mourners to the coffin and back again, trying to make sense of what everyone else seemed to understand.

By the time the prayers began, I was already struggling to hold the bouquet.

It was enormous.

The flowers stretched from my chest almost to my pelvis. My fingers were so small that I could barely wrap them around the stems. My arms ached under the weight. Again and again, they dropped, and again and again, I forced them back into position.

Two younger cousins sat with their parents on the right side of the coffin. Each held a tiny bouquet of red miniature roses.

I thought their flowers were much prettier.

I was jealous.

They were sitting comfortably with their parents while I stood holding a bouquet that felt far too big for me.

I glanced across the coffin toward my sister.

She stood strong and steady.

Her eyes remained fixed on the mourners.

Several times I tried to copy her bravery and look up as well.

But I was painfully shy.

Each time my eyes drifted back to the floor.

Over and over, I looked toward my mother, hoping she would notice me.

Hoping for a smile.

A nod.

A whispered reassurance that it would be over soon.

Anything that might have felt comforting.

But it never came.

The prayers felt endless.

When they were finally over, none of the adults thanked us.

No one said,

"Well done."

No one acknowledged what we had done.

Not even my sister, who had carried herself with remarkable strength throughout the entire service.

I still remember how exhausted I felt when I went to bed that night.

Today, I understand that what I felt was more than physical exhaustion.

I felt empty.

Lonely.

Less important than everyone else.

The next day, during the funeral, as the coffin was lowered into the grave, I finally understood the difference between the living and the so-called dead.

The difference was the physical body.

From that moment on, I understood that the people I sometimes saw were no longer physically here, even though I could still see them.

Part of my six-year-old self still stands in that mortuary.

Most likely, no one else who was there even remembers two little girls standing beside a coffin holding flowers that could have been placed in vases.

Yet I remember.

Even today, it still fills me with disbelief.

But I also know something else.

I'll keep healing.

I'll keep helping that little girl step out of the frozen moment she has carried for so long.

Because she was worthy then.

And she's worthy now.

And to my sister, who spoke up when she was only seven years old:

Thank you.

I'm deeply grateful for your courage.

Sometimes the moments that shape us most are the ones no one else remembers.

Yet those are often the moments we spend a lifetime learning to heal.

Perhaps you've a moment like that too — a memory that still lives somewhere inside you, waiting to be seen, understood, and finally released.

Life has taught me that healing isn't about changing the past.

It's about giving ourselves today what we needed back then.