Memorial Service
by Margaret B. Davidson
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here
to celebrate the life of the late Winslow Wilson…”
From the deserted choir loft I listen in
amusement to the priest droning on, snicker at his pretense of having known me. Why do they do that – pretend they’ve
been familiar, even intimate, with the dear departed despite never having laid eyes on them? The priest is right about one
thing though, I am definitely late. I swallow a chuckle.
It had started with my sixth grade teacher,
Miss Relish. “You are tardy again, Winslow,” she’d chirp.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here
to celebrate the life of the tardy Winslow Wilson…”
I remained tardy through seventh grade,
eighth and onward. I was tardy for work, even tardy lining up for my unemployment check.
Clara didn’t mind that I was tardy
for our first date; she was just happy I showed up at all.
Clara had inherited a tidy sum from her
father’s estate, so closing my eyes to her colorless cheeks and pinched mouth, I asked her to marry me.
Clara didn’t mind that I was tardy
for the wedding; she was just happy I showed up at all.
It was golden for a couple of years, but
then things went south fast. The stock market went on the fritz and Clara’s money shrunk, shrunk some more, and then
was gone. She began to nag me about getting employment, not appreciating at all that I’m not equipped for the nine to
five routine.
My note explaining that I was depressed
and planned on drowning myself was discovered soon after I left.
No body was found, but closure was needed,
so a year later I’m here in the shadows watching a service with no corpse.
“May his soul rest in peace.”
May his tardy soul rest in peace.
Ha, ha. Amen to that.
Copyright Margaret B. Davidson 2005
Margaret B. Davidson, born and raised in England, now resides in upstate New York. Margaret's husband provides moral support for
her writing endeavors, while her cat helps with the typing. She may be reached at: MargaretDa@aol.com
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