Funeral

My mum went to the funeral of the young son of a friend. He died in a car accident. (Word is he was pissed) He'd been a great football player, a handsome, sporty guy. The apple of his mother’s eye. 

The priest said that we could all take great comfort in the knowledge that he's kicking the football around in heaven for all eternity.

“I thought they were all nuts when they said Amen,” said Mum. “Dust. The kid’s dust. That’s just life. What kind of comfort is it giving that kind of cruel, false hope?”

“It's all right mum, because daddies in heaven now,” I said. Mum knew I was talking about my father, her husband. (Surely, I don’t need to tell you that that was sarcasm?)

She laughed. “He was a good man, you father.” She tousled my hair. “He’d think they were all nuts, too.”

“Your husband for 50 years,” I said.

“Yes, 50 years,” she repeated. “It was just like it was yesterday that we were getting married.”

“Do you miss him?” I asked.

“Every minute of every day,” she said. She looked off into the distance, like her life was running through before her eyes.

“I miss him too,” I said.

“I could have done with another 50 years,” she said. “The first 50 just wasn’t long enough.” Her eyes turned just a little glassy, as she gazed out the back window.

She looked back at me and smiled. Wide eyes momentarily. “Come on, let’s get lunch ready, it’s not going to prepare itself.”