What Happened Tomorrow

In Time's Serivce

Although it was only mid-July, the leaves had already begun to fall. It seemed too early, yet nature had its own plans. Some leaves had already turned yellow before hitting the ground, while others had not. In the past thirty years, the average temperature in Alberta had risen by six degrees, so an early autumn came as a surprise to Calgary and the surrounding towns.

July 15th. The weather that day turned gloomy, with wind and clouds dominating the sky. It was the perfect setting for a funeral — an almost cruel irony. Near an open grave in a small, old cemetery on the outskirts of the city, family, friends, and fellow officers gathered in mourning. There was no priest, as the deceased had not believed in God. Hardly anyone shed tears — not even his daughters. He had never wanted anyone to see his death as a tragedy. He'd always said that tears were for events one could have avoided, and death, for an old man, wasn't one of those.

His wife had passed away long ago, though she was a few years younger than he. They had always planned to be buried together, and so it was. No one dared challenge the wishes of an elderly couple, not just because of the sentiment, but because of who he had been and the kind of funeral this was. He was meant to be the last person in the province to be buried. Green laws, eco-friendly policies, and common sense now favored more sustainable rituals, like hydrolysis. Yet the family had managed to convince the city officials to allow this ancient practice to take place, despite the odds.

"Grandpa was a uniquely strong man," a deep voice broke the silence. A dark-haired, middle-aged man stepped forward. "He always looked forward with such vigor, as if he knew what was coming. It's a trait... I didn't inherit." For a brief moment, he chuckled, a sad smile flashing across his face before fading. A few people, including some family members, nodded in quiet acknowledgment. "What always amazed me was how responsible he was with time. He knew how to manage it, how to get things done without tiring himself out or wasting it. He used to say that the future belongs to the happy, and if you cling to the past, you'll only be miserable. I guess... I want to hold on to the past a little longer now." He glanced at the casket, his expression somber. "His favorite saying was: 'The future is never predetermined, even if it has already happened.' I never quite understood that. Neither did Grandma. But I'm glad they're together again now. After eleven years apart, it's finally the right time for a reunion." He paused, looking at the grave. "Goodbye, Grandpa. I'll miss you."

With those words, he walked to the grave, took a handful of soil, and gently dropped it onto the casket. The next to step forward was an elderly man, dressed in the uniform of the Calgary Division of the Federal Canadian Mounted Police.

"Thanks, Theo," the officer said. "That's true. Sam was one of those people who had a sharp sense of time, always aware of how it passed. But you've all heard that before. I probably knew him longer and better than anyone here. Sorry, girls." He gestured to the deceased's sixty-year-old twin daughters. "We've been through a lot together, Sam and I. Service, life... you know. We even got him married." He glanced at the tombstone and sighed. "And we got me married." A short, gray-haired man in a dark suit, standing among the mourners, smiled faintly. "Family, kids. Like everyone else." The officer closed his eyes and sighed again. "I was always amazed by Sam's determination. He was so dedicated to his work, especially when it came to investigations. Sam truly loved the service. A true constable. *Maintiens le droit.* Goodbye, Officer Needles."

As the speeches were made and goodbyes spoken, a five-year-old great-grandson of the man in the casket wandered about, lost and unable to find his place. No one had explained the reason for the gathering to him, as the adults had decided it was best to keep the child unaware. He would never attend another funeral, either. He had barely known his great-grandfather, seeing him only occasionally, but he remembered those brief visits well. What stood out the most were his great-grandfather's eyes — bright emerald green. Sometimes, Xavier thought they even shimmered, especially when his great-grandfather smiled. His grandma had said he had the same eyes, but Xavier never believed her.