At the funeral, I turned everything off that I could. I didn’t think. I didn’t feel. My eyes could not absorb the sights, Preston’s picture on the stage, the absence of a casket, my parents with tears running down their cheeks, my son engulfed in an anger that would never fade. The girl bawling into her hands across the aisle. There were so many images from that day that found their way into my memory, and her face throughout the service was one of them. I hated the pain she emitted, but I made myself watch it. I wanted to punish myself with her grief.
