Childish, light-hearted laughter suddenly filled the house, breaking my black thoughts. I smiled for a moment as I thought of my small cousins tickling each other in another room; their young minds not comprehending the apparent darkness of today. My mood now broken, I decided to prepare myself. The rituals of early morning soothed my mind somewhat, but I could still feel the knots and butterflies in my stomach. I had convinced myself not to dread today, for today was the end of pain and the beginning of a new time. But my body was not yet convinced.

How strange it seemed to me, to be putting on makeup for a funeral, dressing for the dead. Normality seemed to be so out of place in such chaos. Although I didn't want to be, I was confused. I didn't want to appear melancholy, but feigning cheerfulness at such a time seemed wrong.

A light tap on the door and a cheeky, grinning face framed with wild, uncombed fair hair broke me once again from this mood. For a moment I wondered if my mother comparison between myself and my small cousin was true. "Two peas in a pod" was the common analogy.

"My mum said we're going now," she gushed breathlessly, worn out after her climb up the stairs, a chocolate biscuit beginning to melt in her tenacious grip.

"Well then we'd better get going," I replied, taking her small hand. I felt grounded in reality with that small, warm, slightly sticky hand in mine as we walked down the stairs and joined the rest of the family in the lounge.

The room was bustling with life as generations of family came together, greeting each other, many for the first time. Old ladies pinching young cheeks, old men discussing cattle prices and the weather, mothers grabbing small children and vaguely wiping dribble from their children's faces while talking about schools and work and their husbands. Although all appeared normal, the underlying grief and tension was seen in the distant gazes out the window and the stumbling replies to polite questions.

"Time to go," my father announced from the doorway, his coat folded over his arm and his face set grimly in an expression of contained grief. Everyone gathered their coats, hats and children and wandered out of the old brick building and into their cars, the wind messing carefully combed hair and blowing skirts and coats into disarray.

"It'll be over soon, Em," one cousin smiled at me. I returned his smile and he winked before slamming his car door and revving his engine loudly. I laughed at this, it seemed that even now, some things were unchangeable; the show-off in my cousin, the babies crying and the closeness amongst us.

The slow procession of cars into the paddock next to the church wound back several hundred metres along the road, watched with interest by the two house cows recently moved from that paddock. I was surprised to see so many people, and I was nervous that I would make a mistake in my reading.

We filed towards the church, my heart beating madly. This was my first close encounter with such a death. Although I had seen death many times, I had never experienced the confusion of a murdered relative.

The wind still lashed my coat and the wires overhead sang in its wake.

The church was very old and smelt of incense and faintly of flowers. The walls were lined with plaques dedicated to the faithful who had died and the leadlight windows depicted biblical scenes which were hard to make out in the dull light. I followed my father mutely to the front and sat at the end of the pew, ready to walk up to the front when my name was called. I looked up, and to my horror, I found that the coffin, closed and shrouded with a flag and flowers, was directly in front of me. I felt my head swim and I gripped my hands tightly into fists, as though this defiant action could make my head clear.

An organ, played by one of the old characters from the small town, overloaded my senses and for a moment I felt as if I would faint. I sensed the congregation shuffling upright around me and I stood as well, swaying slightly on my feet. I did not sing or mime. I couldn't tear my eyes away from the coffin, wondering what the corpse of my grandfather would look like; wondering if anyone had sewn up the gaping hole in his throat, wondering if he really was at peace now.

The singing stopped and the priest mumbled a few words that I didn't comprehend and the congregation slowly slumped back into their seats. From the back of the church I heard a baby squeal in excitement and from somewhere next to me, a whispered question, "Mummy?"

The muffled coughs, the shuffling feet, the wooden pews creaking under the weight of their occupants; life was everywhere. So much life in his death. The priest mumbled on.

"And now I would ask our two readers, Emily and Diedre, to come up." With those words, sunlight streamed through the windows, lighting the dark little church and making the white flowers upon the coffin almost dazzling to the eye. I sat stunned for a moment. How strange, how appropriate. I looked up to the window, finally seeing the picture in the headlight; Jesus upon the cross, people scrabbling around his feet, the serene look upon his face. With the entrance of the sun, I felt a sense of peace within myself. It was unusual for me to feel this in a church. Usually I would have felt nervous and out of place, but today, everything seemed right somehow.

I stood and walked behind by Aunt, making my way towards the microphone. I was to read first. On the smooth wooden podium in front of me sat two pieces of paper with words that seemed to swim before my eyes, but I knew it almost by heart. I looked up and found all eyes upon me, but I felt strangely calm. I found a few friendly faces who smiled and winked and mouthed encouragement and I felt ready to go on.

"A reading from the Book of Wisdom," I began. And so I read. But it was not merely reading, the words came from my heart. "A virtuous life is ripe old age" I said. I could feel the people before me move. I saw my mother clutch my father's arm, an Aunt rock her new baby in her arms, my cousin put an arm around a friend. Everything seemed so right. I stopped at the bottom of the page, looked up, and found my fathers eyes on me, a small proud smile on his face and a wetness on his cheeks.