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Connor thinks that they could've done much better with this.
It's all black and dreary, dark and gloomy. Zoe would've hated this. They could've at least brought out some daisies, those were her favourites. Roses? Come on. He knows those are commonplace and in most contexts, would've been entirely appropriate, but this is Zoe, for Christ's sake. She didn't like roses, they had too many thorns on them. She always liked daisies much better.
He knows he can't say anything, though. Not when Cynthia and Larry are closer than they've been in years, clinging onto each other like each of them is the only thing holding the other up. Not when Alana is sitting cross-legged on the grass, face buried in her hands, not even facing towards the ceremony. No one else is thinking about what Zoe would've thought of her own funeral. Connor can't blame them, really. He supposes it is a little strange to even be worried about that, especially so soon after her passing, but. He can't help but think of how she'd be shaking her head at all of them, all of this right now.
Zoe'd be picking wild daisies and sliding them into the plastic vases with the roses. She'd be looking between all of them, telling them they shouldn't be so torn apart. She'd be laughing and telling them to stop wasting the sunshine, pointing out how wasteful it is of a perfectly beautiful day to mourn around a hole in the ground. She wouldn't want them in all black, she'd want them in the brightest colours they own, she'd want them smiling and hugging and telling each other about all the great memories they had with her.
Zoe always said she hated funerals. Connor thinks maybe she was right when she said no one ever listened to her.