Fiction. We're Doing It Right.
“I Don’t know what to do Edgar. I don’t know how to organize a funeral. Harry did all that when Owen died.”
“Don’t worry, I know. I’ve done it before, twice, once for Dad and again for Ellen. I’ll find a local funeral parlour and we’ll discuss what kind of funeral – maybe Harry left instructions somewhere. In all our years of talking we never mentioned our own passing.”
“Harry once said that he preferred burial to cremation but that was years ago, people change their minds.” [Read more...]
As usual they helped with the washing up, then Edgar announced that he’d like to go to the library and Harry agreed to meet him there after he’d been to the post office to post all those replies they’d made to the various Berts. They were equipped with wellingtons to cope with the slush.
“There’s a different smell,” said Edgar with his nose in the air. “The thaw smelt warmer. I’d swear there was something else creeping in.”
Harry sniffed, “You could be right. See you soon.” And he turned the corner to the post office. [Read more...]
The old friends agreed not to meet the following week. Edgar wanted to start sorting and packing his gear and Harry had decided to tackle the second of the wardrobe boxes.
“Here goes”, he huffed as he dragged it out onto the floor and untied the knots in the very thick string.
“Great balls of bulb fibre!” he exclaimed. [Read more...]
Harry felt quite uplifted by his idea of writing and set about fishing more packages out of the box. A pile of old bills and receipts.
“Why did I keep these?” He wondered, and glanced through quickly before jettisoning the heap into the ‘unwanted’ receptacle. “That’s better,” he thought, pleased that he’d finally found something he was happy to let go of, and aware that he’d looked at them, albeit briefly, before doing so, with the vague thought that there might have been something to contribute to the memoirs. [Read more...]
The first box he opened revealed a great many small packages, envelopes of various sizes bound with rubber bands which gave up the ghost as soon as touched. The paper of the envelopes was yellowed and sere. Harry opened the first one that came to hand. “Oh my sainted godfather!” he said aloud. “Annie Clark!” A rather brown photograph of a buxom young woman sitting on a hay bale. Harry sat on the edge of the bed staring at the old, what had once been black and white, snapshot. [Read more...]
