So I made up a game.
We were at the funeral, and, despite the stale cookies and coffee, it was a reasonably tolerable service, especially with my overly imaginative mind. Sitting in the corner, I’d pick out someone from the room at random, and then pretend like I was talking to them. Usually, it’d start with me introducing myself, them asking how I knew Mandy, and me walking away. But, sometimes, I’d delve a bit deeper into the possibilities, and, sometimes, I even got as far as Ms. Welling (Mandy’s aunt) pulling out a knife, stabbing me in the gut.
That was always my favorite.
Why?
I don’t know.
But it was fun, imagining how people would react to my appearance at her funeral. Of course, I wouldn’t get nearly that far—the talking would choke me up.
Still, imagining possibilities was better than the crude reality.
My mom was only a bit tipsy, but all the relatives and friends didn’t seem to notice, complimenting her on the beautiful ceremony, even though, secretly, they were all somewhat guilty for not throwing it themselves.
I guess Mandy was never the likable one in her foster’s family of five.
But when someone dies, they deserve respect, right?
Somehow, I don’t think I’ll ever get that respect.
No one would miss me.
And, really, that’s fine with me.
But who knows, maybe you would.
