My daughter was almost five when she attended a funeral for the first time. Until then, she was a person of few words who answered us in clear, pleasant monosyllables: good, fine, nice and so on.
She was basically a "maintenance-free" child, according to my father. I was proud to take her everywhere I went. Nonetheless, I was perturbed by her lack of linguistic skills, more so because I was a language teacher. However, all that worry ended when we went for the wake of a relative.
I went along with my family and of course, my little one. We soon located my teary-eyed aunt, who had lost her son, in the large gathering of family and friends. My family went near the casket and paid our respect to the deceased. We then sat next to my aunt. My daughter soon jumped up to have a closer look at the glass casket. She had seen it only in pictures in her Snow White book. She observed keenly for a few moments, quietly admiring the casket for some time. So I calmed down and was almost relaxed when she turned suddenly in the almost quiet room and asked clearly: "Why is he wearing his glasses?"
I whispered, "Some people need glasses to help them read."
"What is he going to read?"
"Whatever he wants to read," I replied my tone rising.
"His eyes are closed. He cannot read with his eyes closed. Will he open them?"
I couldn’t come up with an answer fast enough.
She gave me a look, happy that for once, she silenced me.
"When grandpa goes to sleep, he always takes off his glasses and puts them on the side table," she triumphantly added.
I glared at her. It had no effect.
Later, similar questions followed regarding the choice of the deceased to wear his watch and socks while "sleeping".
Just when I thought the volley of questions would never end, the entry of a Bishop with a group of priests created a diversion. He gave a sentimental speech about the deceased as a young boy accompanying his father to church. Everyone grew sad, and there were sniffles and soft sighs. I turned towards my aunt and was saddened to see tears streaming down her face. In my mind, she was a tough, wizened and stoic lady, but seeing her grief, my eyes started to cloud. Just then my daughter grew restless. She looked around at all the faces. Some were crying, others calm. My aunt was weeping. The girl was confused, and she peered at me closely trying to gauge my reaction.
She piped up, "Are you crying?"
"No"
"Should you be crying?"
Silence of the stumped.
"What about me?"
"Well, what about you?"
"Should I cry," she enquired earnestly.
