Sorry for Another Sad Story

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I watched out the window as if I was in a trance. Or maybe I was, I couldn't tell. The window screen was old and moth-eaten, the glass tinted a yellow-brown. The sun was sinking into the horizon, making the trees look cracked and gnarled against the light.

I hate funerals.

The window seat had holes in it. While I waited for my mother, I poked my finer in between the frail purple threads. I felt the soft plush stuffing underneath, imagining if it was a cloud. Is this what a cloud would feel like? Or would it just be sticky, humid, foggy air?
The sun sank lower. I stared at the yellow ball for a few seconds, then glanced around the attic, blinking away neon after-images.
"Honey! It's time!" My mother's voice trailed up the stairs.
It's time! It's time. It's time. Time, time, time. I hate time. Most of the time...
I stood up, uncrossing my legs. My black stockings caught on the splintered wood of the wall. I pulled it loose, smoothed out my black, lacy dress, and walked out of the attic; my attic.
My brother was waiting at the foot of the stairs. His suit fit him well, except for the tight black tie that was sticking into his neck.
"Hey," he whispered to me, softly, like the rustling of leaves outside. He took my hand, wrapping his around mine, and led me outside into the chilly autumn air.
Why was this funeral so late? Surely we'd be standing outside until it got dark. Maybe we'd be lost in the darkness, since most of us would be wearing black. I'd sink into a part of the night until I was gone.
The car smelled new. I hated that smell; it gave me headaches. My mother, tall, lean, ducked into the passenger seat. I saw two crystalline tears lingering on her cheeks, threatening to fall. I wanted to catch them in my palm, try to make no more come out.
But I couldn't, obviously; I was not God. Only God can stop mother's tears. Only God could have prevented death, but not this time. Why not this time?
My brother squeezed my hand. I looked up into his handsome face. The car pulled forward and our house disappeared behind us, like it was never there. Soon I was looking at gravestones flying past. They danced before my eyes, like tiny moths attracted to streetlights. All I could see were the gravestones, standing tall, like a mountain range. Some were sideways, as if the wind was blowing against the mossy cement.
Before I knew it words were being said. I was standing in front of a hole. A casket was being lowered into it, dark roses sliding off its glassy surface.
Someone was sobbing. A loud, booming voice said precious words; it was probably the priest. Then the sun sank behind the earth and the light was gone.

continued, if you want