I stood on the sideline away from the crowd. Occasions like this always fascinated me, I never knew why. I didn’t understand how funerals always depressed people, it was if everyone used the event to wallow in their own grief. Although why wallow in your grief? There’s not much use of it whether you’re dead or alive. Was no one else fascinated about how the person who died now has the knowledge of the beyond? They have the ultimate secret and refuse to share it. Slowly everyone trudged to make a line alongside the hole. Everyone with flowers in their hands. Lilies. Tossing them on top of the dropping casket as tossing pennies into a fountain. A silly tradition, which is why I will not partake. When the never ending line finally ended, a man I never met stood in front of the gaping hole. The hole was alluring to me, like a portal to another world. It beckoned me. Each gradient of black held endless possibilities. The man’s voice inched my attention away from the dirt.
“Let us take a few final moments of silence to commemorate the life of Rhetta Markley.”
The name rang in my ears. That can’t be right. That’s wrong, the unfamiliar man said the wrong name. Hastily I stole a glance at my neighbors memorial pamphlet. The name Rhetta Markley appeared right above a picture. A name and picture that belonged to me.