#43

they told her she could say a few words. she didn't have anything written but this didn't catch her off-guard. nothing ever did. emotion wasn't something she awarded herself. not anymore. not for the last, well, not for a long time now.
so she sat in the front row. it was reserved for family members only. only three seats in the whole row were taken.
during the eulogy she scratched some thoughts down on paper. they told her to "say a few words." of course the eulogy was canned. what was there to say about him?
they motioned for her to come to the stage. she looked at her paper.
pretentious, it said.
a sketched clock, a heavy slash drawn through it.
i didn't break my leg falling out of the tree, it said.
nothing was good enough, it said.

she looked at the expectant mourners. most of them were there out of civil duty, respect (for who?), maybe a photo op leaving the funeral home with the mogul's only child.

"everybody has their secrets." she crumpled the sheet. "and my father had his too. you keep your memories of him, whatever they are. every one of you in here had something to gain from him. i don't think a single one of you was ever a true friend." she motioned to the casket, dropping her crumpled paper inside. "this is a man who has died without a single friend at his side. but i guess that's not a secret to any of you."

walking out to the sunshine, her secrets too, were gone.