A child doesn’t see black at a funeral;
she sees the new digital camera
she just got for her birthday;
she sees family all around
sitting, crying, snacking, mourning;
she can’t see why.
She sees photographs
of her grandmother, her dear friend,
all around on boards and in frames;
she sees that these are the reasons for their tears.
She sees that Grandma is gone,
but she has been gone for some time,
so now all she sees is family everywhere
and her new clunky digital camera
with the inch wide, inch tall screen.
The room feels so heavy,
heavier than the weight of the camera
in her small hands.
Maybe the camera’s flash will fix what’s broken.
She sneaks up behind her grandpa,
taps on his shoulder,
and, with a sneaky smirk, snaps his picture
giggling with childish joy.
Somehow, her joy negates the heaviness and
brings a hint of a smile to her grandfather’s face,
if only for an instant:
an instant that her small camera captured.
When her family sees the blurry pictures
taken by an innocent, unsteady hand,
none of them will notice the black attire
or the tear-stained cheeks.
They will only see the hint of a smile
on Grandpa’s face.