Sister, mother, grandmother, tyrant. And now corpse.
There wasn’t a wet eye in the house. Churches proffer comfort. Those here today
greedily embraced the comfort in knowledge that Rose was no more. The thorny,
halitosis-riddled witch I was made to call Gran was breathless at last.
She once whisper-spat good riddance as I knelt before my father’s casket. It was the
most pitiable day of my ten-year-old life.
The priest stood. Rose was loved, he began, uncertain. Celebrants cast bemused looks
across empty pews. A beat. Satan loved her, I offered. As resolute Amens echoed, the
tittering swelled to laughter.
Brad Ross is a communications professional from Canada, offering communications advice and counsel to businesses and individuals. He publishes a weekly Substack newsletter called "HOT Takes." You can find him at bradross.ca
This story was shortlisted in the May 24 Monthly Micro Competition