This is my contribution to #WeekendFreewrite, the amazing weekend edition of #freewrite.
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He swore on his mother's grave, but then he swore on just about everything. It had all gone wrong today, and just because of her, this stupid bitch! He felt the anger rise. He wanted to yell at her, slap her in the face, but bot in front of all of these people. Drinking coffee, chatting as if nothing had happened. She was dead, for God’s sake, he thought, and even on her funeral nothing had been right.
His sister had planned everything, just the way she wanted. Hadn’t even asked him if he thought the flowers were appropriate, if he anted the music to be different, if he thought they should chose different cakes and sandwiches for the coffee after the funeral. She hadn’t asked him once, not once.
She had told the undertaker that she was responsible, she was in charge, and from that moment on it all went wrong. Again.
He didn’t recognize his mother in a single sentence the priest spoke, he didn’t like the choice of songs, after all, his mother wasn’t religious, she just had never quit the church out of, as she had once told him, laziness. And then her sister had chosen all these chants, all these hymns, he didn’t know a single line of any of them while his sister next to him sang passionate and with the loudest voice he had ever heard on her. It seemed as if she wanted to attract the attention to him. To make everybody listen to his silence. To embarrass him.
"You could make a living doing that kind of thing." I suppose I could, but I had never thought about it, until then.
It was as if he woke up from a dream by his own thoughts.
“What... what did you just say?”
Mr. Vondegaard bended over, looked him into his eyes. He could see every pore in that old man’s face, smell the mixture of coffee and vodka in his breathe. Even see the rest of asleep in the corner of his left eye.
“I said: You could make a living doing that kind of thing.”
He didn’t know what Mr. Vondegaard was talking about.
“Sure, I could.”
Mr. Vondegaard looked satisfied, nodded, so he was right after all. He leaned back again, turning his head and waving at the waitress for more coffee.
Why would his sister do this? Part of his anger, his outrage had turned into sorrow. This was the day to say goodbye to his mother, and it was almost over. He wanted to prolong the goodbye, that was the least his sister could do for him, he thought, sit with him as long as he wanted.
Mrs. Vondegaard took her husbands hand. His breathe was more a mixture of vodka and vodka now. She pulled him up, obviously she wanted to go. He didn’t. They were the last ones. Apart from him and his sister.
Mrs. Vondegaard wanted to hug him. He stood there, in front of her, just wanted to endure it. He didn’t move when she came up to him, spread his arms and looked like she would start crying again immediately. She had cried almost the whole day. When she embraced him, he didn’t lift his arms. Her dress was wet from all her tears, even on her shoulder. He just wanted to go to the bathroom.
Mr. and Mr. Vondegaard finally walked out, stumbled both a bit, the waitresses held the door open, and the two oldest friends of his mother left.
Now it was only his sister and him in the room. She walked around and it looked like she wanted to pick up a few leftovers, maybe even the flowers on the tables. This just wasn’t right, he thought.
Now what am I going to do with her?