They’d arrived late, after a long drive.
“Would you,” asked the funeral director, “like to view the body?”
“No!” Ellie gasped, horrified.
“I would,” said David, grim-faced, ignoring his sister. “I’ve never been frightened of Dad, and I’m not going to start now he’s dead.”
Crushed, she lingered outside the chapel-of-rest.
“Would you like to say goodbye to your mother?” says the same man today.
Ellie’s guilt smoulders still.
The sands of time may have shifted, but the moral high ground remains firmly in place.
“God, no! I’m not one for gawping at the dead.”
Saying goodbye to friends and familiar places today, before we start our journey north again. I’ll miss drifting off to sleep to sounds of waves breaking on the beach a few hundred yards away, but not waking up to the sound of refuse collectors loudly emptying the bins on the street outside at 2 in the morning, or the street-sweeper patrolling at dawn. What is it about Spain and nocturnal utilities? Thanks to Rochelle for using one of my photos this week, and for her unswerving commitment to Friday Fictioneers.