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Here’s mine: 🙂
The cheerful, white clapboard church looked out on the brooding bay far below. Warm sunlight glinted on the wild, foaming waves. Rosie King sat on a gravestone, swinging her legs, watching her friends, neighbors, and relatives arrive in their appropriate dark attire. They were all here for Betty Clay.
Rosie didn’t specifically know how she was related to Betty. She could have been a fourth or fifth cousin twice removed, or a great-aunt’s brother’s sister—no one really knew. The tie was weak but evidently existed.
She surveyed the gathering townsfolk.
Mrs. Gleason was loudly sobbing into her handkerchief, intermittently stopping for a breath of air. Rosie smothered a smile. It was surprising Mrs. Gleason had even come. Of course, she could be crying from happiness.
The Clays were already inside, as their buggy was tied up at the hitching post.
The only person who looked happy was Mrs. Thompson, who had always envied Betty for her first prize blueberry pie. She was probably planning on going over to the Clay house today to try to steal the recipe. Unless Betty had the foresight to burn it, Mrs. Thompson would be the new champion of the pie contest this year.
Rosie could see the Colemans riding slowly up the lane in their buggy, looking as somber as humanly possible. Quite fitting for a funeral, but then they always looked like that. Grandmother always said the Colemans owned was because they believed a Christian was to be serious about all matters. Then they definitely took it to heart. Mr. Coleman’s mouth looked like a prune from so many disapproving looks.
And there was Hilda. Rosie’s eyes danced. This would be interesting.
Hilda Coleman strode over to Rosie. At Rosie’s amused look, Hilda arched her eyebrows and pinched her mouth exactly like her father. “I’m so sorry to hear about your…your relative, Rosie,” Hilda said, in her confidential, droning voice. “I’m sure you and your family are desolate from grief.” Her frog-like eyes blinked hypnotically.
“We are still in mourning, as you can see, Hilda,” Rosie said, dropping her eyes innocently. “I think I’ll be wearing black for a few more days.”
Hilda’s eyes bulged—even more than they usually did. “Well, I never! You’re going to have to wear it for at least week do be decent! Think about poor Betty, in her grave—“
“She’s not in her grave yet,” Rosie inserted.
Hilda cleared her throat. “Think about poor Betty, in her coffin, knowing her own relations don’t care for her enough to wear decent mourning clothes.” She shook her head and looked at the ground. “It’s a sad, sad world,” she said.
“Don’t you find that interesting, Dirt?” said Rosie, also looking at the ground.
Hilda looked down her nose at Rosie. “You’re not fit to talk to right now. I’m actually sorry for you, you know. You’re probably so upset you don’t know what you’re saying.” She smiled sugar-sweetly. “Goodbye, Rosie.”
Rosie watched Hilda clomp indignantly back to her parents. Hilda made life so interesting.
Spreading God's love until I can see seven billion smiles. 🙂 https://sevenbillionsmiles.home.blog