PHOTO PROMPT © Yvette Prior
All was set for the service.
Programs lounged on chairs in the next room. The adequately melancholy music played. Discrete tissue boxes rested at either end of the first row.
She waited as heels clicked on marble and black fabrics swished and the somber faces of acquaintances, rearranged for the occasion, nodded at her. She endured the hugs and shoulder pats and too-long handshakes. She breathed through the words.
The room quieted.
She rose and stared at the ornate urn on the dais before turning to face the living.
“You should know,” she began, “that Dad was not a good man.