I woke up this morning to snow on the ground. Today could have been a wonderful day. Vernal equinox, the first day of spring, the day after which the days will be longer than the nights for six months. It could have been a happy day for me.

Unfortunately, happiness is far, far away. Perhaps it is locked in a cupboard, somewhere in the recesses of my mind. It is probably collecting dust. I'd look for it, but there are too many cupboards, holding too many things that I'd rather not find instead of happiness.

I didn't want to get out of bed this morning. I was having a good dream, where the sun was shining, where everyone I love was happy and smiling. We were all having a picnic together, joking and laughing under a perfect summer sky. It was a very vivid dream. It was the most joyful and comforting dream I have ever experienced.

Upon waking, the sense of comfort drained away, leaving me with sorrow, dread, grief, loss, and loneliness twisting in the hollow pit of my stomach. I got up, drank a pot of coffee, brushed my hair, and helped the kids dress in their best clothes.

I couldn't find anything appropriate to wear for myself. All of my dresses were either dirty, torn, or ill-fitting. I had a black pair of slacks, but they too, didn't fit. I needed a belt. I don't own a belt. I decided that it didn't matter what I looked like and wore the absurdly baggy slacks with a t-shirt long enough to disguise the fact that my waistband was riding sightly below my hips.

"Nobody is going to be looking at me anyway," I thought.

My maternal grandmother drove me to the graveside service. Dozens of people were there. I only recognized a handful of them. Everyone was talking. Snippets of conversation rose out of the hubbub.

"What a beautiful color on the casket."

"How was the drive?"

"Eloise is looking pretty well."

"Now, where are their sons buried?"

I wanted to get back in the car and go home. If I had driven myself, I would have. I saw my brother, a head or more taller than everyone else, with his wife. They had flowers. Flowers for Grandpa's grave, for Dad's grave, and for my daughter's grave. I didn't bring anything but tears, and not enough kleenex. Now my hands, as well as my heart, felt empty.

In order to avoid looking at anyone's face, I looked at their clothes. My brother was wearing a nice suit. It looked expensive. Everybody had nice clothes on. Black predominated.

I looked at what my children and I were wearing and cringed. Their best clothes weren't what I had thought them to be. My son's coat had a large tear in the sleeve, so he kept his right arm clamped to his side so that the wind wouldn't blow through it. He was slouching, but not because he normally slouched. He slouched because his only button up shirt was too small, and bits of skin showed when he stood up straight.

My daughter stood shivering in the cold wind, her dress too thin for this weather. It was the only dress I could find for her that fit. I should have let her wear pants.

The pallbearers moved the casket a whopping ten feet to where the grave was. With all the fake grass and mechanical stuff, it looked surreal. Other than the pile of muddy soil, there was nothing that seemed real about the burial.

The pastor said things that I felt had nothing to do with my grandpa. My grandpa never talked to me about God or Jesus. He talked to me about nature and farming, about how to fix things and how to make things. I wouldn't be the person I am today without the input I had from my grandpa.

After the graveside service everyone milled around and the hubbub resumed. I found myself standing in front of my firstborn daughter's grave, staring blankly at the headstone. Her birthday would have been two days from today. She would have been twelve.

A constant stream of people came by, gave me a hug and said, "Hi. I'm _____. I'm your _____. I haven't seen you since ______'s funeral."

Apparently, my father's side of the family only talks to me at funerals. They all seem to know each other pretty well, and know exactly who I am. I don't recognize any of them. I find myself wondering if there are family functions that I have been excluded from for my entire life.

My grandmother asked me to give a reading for the eulogy. So I found myself standing at the memorial service, facing a room so full of people that there were people standing in the back and peeking in from the foyer. People I didn't know. People with expectant looks and tissues at the ready.

I read the words on the paper that my grandmother had handed me. I carefully enunciated each syllable without thinking of the content. I managed to not cry in front of a roomful of strangers.

After the funeral there was another stream of people introducing themselves to me. I didn't know who any of them were this time either.

Another building, a reception, and another stream of people went by. I found out that one of my neighbors is a second cousin that I never knew I had. There was food. I didn't want to eat. Relatives harassed me until I did.

I am still grieving. I will miss my beloved grandpa for the rest of my life. I will remember him every time I smell rain on the wind, every time I split wood, and every time I buck bales. The memory of my grandfather will live on in all the things he taught me, and I will teach those things to my children.