Smilers.

There was no need to be offensive.

You just wanted attention.

You got it, and it made my blood boil.

* * * * * *

For a long time now, I've hated organised religion.

My father beat (Not literally) this into me by the way he used to scream obscenities at the Jehovah's Witnesses. Sometimes it was fun, but other times I just used to run away, try to disassociate myself from him.

I used to hate doing anything with him. Everything was littered with a racist or xenophobic pretence and subtext. Even over dinner he used to complain about migrant workers and the church. He used to say the words "The Papal State" more than "I love you".

I never used to put any stock into what he said, until I saw what he was talking about as a clear picture, not as a string of randomly offensive phrases.

We were at the funeral of a distant relative, someone's uncle or brother. And brother. I wasn't paying attention as my father grimaced through the entire ceremony. I looked over to the group a few plots away.

They were smiling.

They were burying a person, and they were smiling. I couldn't wrap my head around it.

Now, I know why. That's they way they are.

It's still a freakish prospect to me. Maybe that's why I became a writer, a journalist. To ask questions about things I never understood.

So why am I still confused about myself?

I smile now too, like they did. Just to get through the pain and confusion.

It's the sweetest torture to know you don't care, or at least have no desire to listen to someone else's problems.

The smile is cold, and full of regret.