Rain fell soft and silky. How could she have lost touch with the man she almost married?
It hadn’t been Melvyn’s department store for forty years. Fringed in yellow pollen, puddles became crime scene outlines. Superstition prevailed. They were to be avoided at all costs.
Deny perception or declare delusion? She had no idea where this conversation was going.
Patchwork farms gave way to suburbia. Too bad families, friends only got together at funerals.
Had he suffered in the last days? Too late and inappropriate to ask.
Always affable. Willing to share personal stories or anecdotes–before getting down to business.
It would be crass to call Harold a hero. Hero was such an overused word. Clients felt they were in good hands. Harold was a businessman first–then a friend.
Harold’s health battles were kept secret. No one, except a few close friends, knew till the very last day. Harold’s death came as a complete shock.
The faithful milled about, their gaunt, long faces engaged in quiet conversations.
When it’s my time–I’d like to go that way. He looked so nice and peaceful lying there.