December 2, 1942: Day of the Funeral

As I sit on my bed, wearin' my black dress, I don't want to go to her funeral. I am too grummy and to torn up from the rest of the world to be consoled. These past four days have been torture for me, and my mind is filled with memories from the fire at the Nightclub. After just recently learning that a 16-year-old boy accidentally started the conflagration, my heart aches even more because Rose would still be alive if I had known that the club was goin' to be burned down.

As my family and I enter the funeral home, I jitter, but try to stay composed. My mother holds my hand and walks me down to the casket for the kiss off. On the way down the aisle, my family meets Rose’s parents and we reach out to them. When the funeral service starts, I try to block myself out from the crowd. After a little while, Willy, Rose’s 8-year-old brother holds my hand and I put my arm around him. At that moment I realize how strong I need be in order to get through this day. Soon it is my turn to speak; I close my eyes for a few seconds and then walk by Rose’s casket on the way to the podium.

And I begin, “Rose Joyce Wood died in a tragedy that she could not escape from, but the memories she left us are still here. Rose was the only person who I understood, and who understood me. We were always there to comfort each other when we were feelin' low an' even though she is not here anymore, I know she will always be watching over me. My guardian angel, rest in peace”