Kori and her daughter (part 3 of 3)

The procession turns right onto Cimarron Avenue. Past Mrs. Ginger’s house, past the barbershop, the grocery store, Starbucks and the elementary school. The cemetery is tucked away, behind a grove of trees, in a peaceful pocket.

Kori’s gravestone is simple yet significant. Her daughter places a single red rose on the coffin as it drops down. Her black patent-leather shoes are shiny, and she wants to twirl in her dress, but she knows that’s somehow not OK right now.

While the friends and family dab at their eyes and bow their heads, they feel the same inclination as the daughter – to enjoy the light breeze stirring the leaves, take in the smells of rich soil, bask in the sun.

Because the sun is undeniable. The light reminds them of life as they face Kori’s death. The cycle is evident in the bright red rose being covered in dirt, the dead flowers and cracked headstones that are illegible, the mourners of all ages.

Kori’s daughter walks up to a nearby statue, a small angel whose chubby face resembles her own. She runs her fingers across its cold stone, wiping dirt off the wings.

Questions hang in the air above the other mourners, as the dirt continues to fill the grave: How could this happen to someone so young? Why did she have to suffer? How will the daughter survive this grief?

For once, the daughter has just one thing to say. She turns from the angel, glances at the grave and looks at the sky.

“Mama is in heaven.”