You are standing at the back because you got there late, and you are worried about that. Let me tell you: no one noticed. No one ever noticed.
You are holding the little printed program with the photo on it, the one that doesn't quite look like them, and you are folding and unfolding the corner. That program is in a box in your closet right now, decades from here. You kept it. You will be glad you kept it.
Look at your aunt across the room, the one who is telling the same story about the fishing trip for the third time to a different cousin. You think you'll hear that story forever. You will not. You will one day give anything to hear her get a detail wrong again.
You are so busy being strong. You are watching yourself, checking whether you're crying too much or not enough, whether you said the right thing in the line. Stop. Nobody is grading you. The rightest thing you did all day was show up in your slightly wrong shoes and stand there and mean it.
Here is what you don't know yet. Twenty years on, you will not remember the eulogy. You will remember your father's hand finding your shoulder during the second hymn, and how you both pretended it was to steady you when really it was to steady him.
So when the coffee and the sad little sandwiches come out afterward, and you feel guilty for laughing, laugh. That's the part you get to keep. Go find your cousin. Take the ugly cookie.
Stay a little longer than you planned.