Callous, not me.

A relative died last Saturday. He was actually not a relative, he's more like a family acquaintance but I was saddened with his death, needless to say. We were not close, but his children and I are childhood friends. When I heard about his death, I never felt anything. I never thought I'd cry, until I saw him at his coffin this morning.

I dread going to their house but I know I had to. On my way there, tears were welling up my eyes and my mind's screaming, "Quit the drama, you never talked to that guy!" So when I entered the house, I went to his coffin and said a little prayer. I was hesitant to look at him but I did, finally I mustered the courage of looking at his dead body. And then my tears fell. His sister approached me, hugged me and cried with me. We never talked.

I was never close to Uncle Wally, like I said, we never talked. But I felt sorry for him, for his children and two wives. Yes he had two wives. When he was living, almost everybody hated him. I know I didn't. But why did I cry? He died of a sickness nobody cared about. His last days were spent alone in his house. He died only when his daughter visited him that fateful day last Saturday. I cried for him, I felt sorry. If only he had been good to the people who cared for him, he wouldn't be miserable, he wouldn't be alone.

Yes, nobody liked him until now but they're all giving him the respect that he deserved.