All to charity, sorted by relatives. Nothing else bequeathed to.
They finished typing this, while raising an eyebrow, as if to wonder what worth would be found in this young woman's tiny city home.
Her building's old and rusting charms were sure to be demolished, and she did not own more than the 8 months remaining. Pre-paid, of course she made time to mention.
How generous it must be to leave your loved ones with time, they wondered, as if to propose that after the first month it would be possible to sieve.
Yes, I want to give them time. My relatives live far and it would be expensive for them. The eight months made sense now.
Then within 100 days to host the first mass, not before. Mass? Why would you think of playing host?
In what manner, they asked? Roman Catholic, though winced as if her unsure gaze could not give more away.
After the fourth month, when all the halls are cleared and the boxes stacked, to sort and send - charity shops or whoever would do, typed nearly incorrectly. Fourth month, for month - the backspace ran wild.
Documents and toils, for your journey home? What journey? I am to be with God.
In the box, Miss. Surely you have decided your bank accounts and hopes, your stocks and salts? I could ask your relatives perhaps, once you are gone. They pause, to give the young lady time, who seemed so sure of staying eight but for dears, not her.
Half a minute.
In this time the young lady reached into her purse, light mauve under the setting sun. Yes, I have decided. My home is with the state. Pulling out a blue rectangle as if worth gold, she sighed.
This is all I have left you see. What once was green and gold, is now blue and gold. Behind the passport, newly issued, was a torn crumpled - yet crisp - foreign item.
How strange it must be, this young one, they thought. To think of eight months and no days, and beyond worlds.
