A Grown Man Cry
Creative Non-Fiction by Megan Gartrell published in Vol 3 Issue 1
I first saw a grown man cry at my Grandpa’s funeral. It was late November, on a Saturday. Leaves were fading from orange to gray and the air thick with cold. There had not been snow yet, but the ground was frozen. I was nineteen, wedged against four sisters and six cousins on a hard, wooden pew. My Nana sang in the Lutheran choir so the funeral was down the road from our usual Baptist house of worship. The Lutheran church had huge, flat grey stones covering the outside like a medieval castle; all that was missing was a moat and drawbridge. In the interior hung heavy purple curtains beside banners that depicted Christ’s resurrection in crimson paint. Drafts of wind jabbed at us through the ceiling cracks and I remember shivering despite the heat from my sister Alexis’ shoulder.