He resembled a skeleton as he sat in front of a folding table, under a small tent. The ground was soggy from an earlier rain but the metal legs of his chair held him above ground just fine. He wore a black suit – a tie to match hung around his collar. His silver-framed glasses sat atop his pointy-nose, a mask, inappropriately, covered his mouth. He still feared Covid years after the pandemic had ended. It made sense, afterall, he was a funeral director.
A giant speaker blared “Oh come all ye faithful”, as the sun began to set. The cold winter’s wind blew violently, he pulled his stocking cap down over his ears, making his appearance even funnier.
A line of cars tailgated one another trying to make their way into the cemetery for this year’s Christmas Eve candlelight vigil, a simple way to remember loved ones on such a special holiday. The funeral home supplied the pre-lit candles in fancy wooden holders, the least they could do after all the stolen money taken from the weary during their most vulnerable times. He figured what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. He handed out steaming cups of cocoa to those who wished for a taste.
He opened the metal lid to his prefilled thermos and plopped in a few giant marshmallows from a plastic sandwich baggie he had placed in his coat pocket. The scalding drink splashed, sending him quickly backwards. His feet became entangled in an extension cord that fed electricity to the outside. He grabbed on to the table to prevent a fall but instead brought it down with him. Hot chocolate ran through the grass and onto the power supply, the combination lit up the graveyard and sent Mr. What’s-his-name to his own grave.
Leesa Writes 