By Ann Snow
She interrupted my funeral.
She wore no black. Her green crop top sported a cartoon bunny, worn ironically, of course. She was 16. (The bunny absconded with her color, turning from white to pink. It left an afterimage in my vision, cheerfully disapproving.)
She brought a phone to my funeral. Its smiley face charm bobbed merrily as she babbled.
I hated her; I hate her.
She pried my casket open with bloody hands. The bunny was red.
She brought lights to my funeral, as red as the bunny, as blue as the vein in her neck.
She ruined my funeral. Again.
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