He’s gone. Finally.
We’re putting him in the ground today.
Only eight people are coming.
Most of them never knew him, and those that did, won’t shed a tear.
I wonder why it had to end this way?
Why did I have to be a part of it?
When I met him on that blind date he was charming, and generous- Swept me off my feet, and I wanted ‘out’.
A perfect storm.
We didn’t date for long and I took him home to meet my parents early on.
He was handsome, and flirted with my mother. She liked it. I was proud.
The date was set, invitations sent, and presents received, until he lost his temper.
I cancelled the marriage.
He called every day for a month to say how sorry he was and how he couldn’t live without me.
I cried in my mattress on the bunk in my parent’s trailer.
I looked up at linoleum tiles covering the ceiling, swatting the flies coming in through the torn screens.
I packed a bag and caught a midnight bus meeting him at the station two states away- and we were married, with strangers for witnesses.
Strangers for life.
Lies had been told. I didn’t know the difference.
There was no job.
There was no house.
We moved in with his parents, who I barely knew.
They were very cautious. It would only be years later that I would find out he had done this before.
But I was pregnant- and life had begun, through endless job terminations, dubious acquaintances, fits of rage, lies, other women, bad decisions, and fast cars.
And we couldn’t pay the rent and I couldn’t keep my girls safe.
Eight feet deep isn’t deep enough.
This piece is part of a writing prompt provided by Indie Chick Lit, which was: Your husband/wife (that you secretly hated) of 50 years has just passed away. Write the funeral scene. I found it on the amazing blog Suburbia Interrupted written by the awesome Dani Walker. Thanks Dani!