The maroon sun casts shadows onto the ground; patches of darkness in a room of red-tinged light. The window, closed, makes the room humid with summer heat, and sweat trickles down the nape of my neck as we sit, a silent congregation, waiting for the service to begin. In front of us is a large, marble altar that looks out of place in the floral-colored bright room. Behind the altar is a short, wooden, ornately carved coffin, casket closed.

But the closed top doesn’t offer us any sense of illusion as to what the body looks like. We’ve all heard the description that was whispered in the back of the room; bloody hair, mangled legs, skid-marks from the tires. I’d seen the body, but this description just makes it worse. The clothes had been described as “completely destroyed,” but of course they had changed those. The morticians had said they’d dressed the wounds to the best of their efforts, but there was only so much they could do.

And I’m looking at the casket and wondering why it had to happen to my daughter.