I was really young, around three, when my great aunt Vicky died. I had never met the woman, and I couldn't care less as I saw her dead form in the coffin. All around me people were crying. I understood their pain, but I did not feel it. My mom had to bring me to the wake, I didn't have a choice, not that I cared. I was three, after all, and it was an excuse to ride a plane.

My grandmother picked me up and brought me over to the coffin so I could see properly. I saw a pale woman with short, black hair and red lips. I think she was wearing red, too, but I could be wrong. My grandma had me reach my hand out and touch Vicky's cheek, to feel how it was cold and hard, so I would understand she wasn't coming back. I didn't really mind. Why would I? Others were crying, I didn't know this lady, I'd never even seen a picture. What was it to me? It would make no difference to mehe never came back, because for me, she was never there.

Hear that word? "Me"? I use it so often because I was cut out from the others in that moment, the only non-mourner. I heard others wailing, and I didn't even feel bad for them. They were sad, I knew. They had a reason to be sad. I didn't. So I wasn't.

After the funeral, we went to her old house. It was full of handmade toy rabbits, some with clothes and some without. My mom told me Vicky had made them, and told me and my one-year-old brother to pickone to take home. My brother,even then, chose a small, patched looking rabbit with a funny look on it's face. I chose a cream coloured rabbit with black button eyes and a beautiful pink dress. As I heard the people crying, saw the tears flowing from my grandmother's face, and looked around at the house no one owned, I finally felt the sadness.

A single tear slid down my cheek.