The day I look forward to.
There is a day we all hope for. One that is just ‘ours’. One that we try to shape and tailor our life around, to see that very day.
Imagine it. No, imagine vividly what you’re going to read next.
A small, little boy, dressed in a small, little black suit with a small, little white shirt, a small, little black pant and a small, little black tie, holding his parents’ hands and waiting at the to cross the street, for the light to turn green. A letter, in his father’s hand and a flower in his own small, little hand. The mother holding a black umbrella, ready to defend her family from the melancholic rain.
It turns green, and they walk along, crossing over, en route to the venue. The little boy with no understanding of there he is, with a hop in his walk, and the brightest smile at the other strangers dressed in the same clothes as he is! They smile back too!
They walk into a patch of green, by a tree, the little boy sees many people talking with each other. Smiling, laughing, tearing up, smile-crying. The father walks up with his son, to a beautiful young woman, and he gives her the letter he had been carrying with a satisfied smile, a warm hand.
The people gather around, its time for the event to commence. It started off with one young man, on a small podium, addressing the crowd and the occasion they are here for.
“My father, was a stern, monotone man, who’d make jokes occasionally that would make me reconsider.”
…
“He taught me to fail, to stand and to seek the truth.”
…
“Truly a real friend to me. He cared, and showed me how he learnt to care.”
…
“I’m funnier than him though.”
<the crowd laughs and sniffles>
“Darn right!” An older gentleman concurred.
He finishes his short speech. The wind starting to pick up. The drizzle of the small, little foreseeable tempest. Then the beautiful young woman, with a mountain of letters addressed to her father, walked over and read out a few.
A few went,
“Thank you for being patient with me, always.”
…
“I wish we could have met the guys one more time you know? Now you up and left, come on man. You always left early haha.”
…
“I’m glad you lived man, it took you a while, but you did, now we are trying too.”
…
“We really went to the sky, eh?”
…
Then a bunch of letters thanking this person, who they are here for. Thanking him not for amazing things, but little things. For being weird, but trying to be good. Helping them by giving, so much more. By living.
The letters are all opened. The rain pours. All the titans with fedoras, are now covered by the dome of their umbrellas. Individually, walking to the tombstone, to lay down their flowers.
The people carrying a single flower, not a bouquet, and the distinct purple, puzzled the boy’s mother.
“Why purple? Why one?”
She asks her husband.
He replied with a melancholic countenance,
“He was never the type to like attention. He never got any flowers either, but knowing him, he just wanted today to be the day he gets the most flowers, so he must have pushed them away.
See all these people? I don’t know any of them, he did, so maybe I do too.
Y’know? for a man who didn’t like getting much, he was VERY specific.
Weird person, but still family. He firmly believed that.
Oh and for some reason he liked the idea of getting a SINGLE, purple flower. Don’t know why, I never could read the guy.”
The man chuckles.
Then comes, the turn of the little boy, so he walked up to the headstone, with his small little stride. The parents following, under the guard of the umbrella. They are greeted by that beautiful, young woman and an older woman who had a warm smile.
The young lady, exclaims, “a purple chrysanthemum! I am sure Dad would love it.” The boy smiles and goes on to place it with the rest of the flowers.
He reads the engraved words.
“Here lies Ezra *******. A Father, Husband and friend. A man who wanted to live, like his King.”
“Who’s Ezra?” the boy asks.
“A good friend.” the dad replies.
The rain settles, and everyone is now in conversations, reminiscing, remembering and most of all, laughing.
Its my funeral, and I welcome you all.
