I had three grandparents pass away within nine months. Two of the funerals I was okay for, because I own a black winter dress. For my father's dad, who was the last one...it was in the summer, and I don't own a black *summer* dress. I don't own a solid navy one either. I have a print navy dress. Which my mother, who is a stickler for dressing up since I was a little girl, said was fine. Granddad liked me in it. (And I loved him. Dad's mom was toxic, but granddad wasn't. Just very passive.) And if anyone cared, too bad. The family didn't.
I had heels, but at the wake the day before my grandfather's brother was panicking about the pallbearers. (Uncle Jerome couldn't come to the funeral itself because of his wife being so sick.) Who would do it? Did we have enough....well, there's not that many young people in my dad's family, so it was dicey. I told my dad that I'd do it. If only so we could tell Jerome it was all family. But so I'd be more comfortable...I wore sandals the day of the funeral. And if one person had said something, I would have given them a look and turned away. Because Jerome knowing that it was all family as pallbearers for his last remaining brother was more important than anything I could wear.
Doing that for him was one of the proudest moments of my life. And now I apparently have something in my eye....