I flicked my cigarette butt to the ground, feeling a certain kinship as it landed, incongruous, among the fallen pink petals. I crushed it under the toe of my boot.
Looking up, I spotted my cousin, Helen, as she leant in to hug her mother. Both had the same ashy brown hair as my father and both were doing a splendid job of looking suitably distraught at his funeral. As they pulled apart, my Aunt let out yet another breathy sob and lifted a crumpled hanky to dab at her eyes. I ran my hand through my auburn curls – my mother’s hair. I missed her. Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath and schooled my face.
“Clare, is it? So sorry for your loss.” A stranger said, reaching out to grasp my hand. I stepped back from him and offered a tight lipped nod. His hand hung awkwardly between us for a moment before he drew it back. With a pitying look on his bearded face, he retreated to join another group of mourners. Were they sharing stories? Funny anecdotes about the late, great Walter Dunne?
With a sniff, I walked back to the hole where my Dad’s coffin now lay. It hadn’t been covered in yet except for a couple of token handfuls of dark, rich soil. Looking down at the glossy wood, I wondered if he could hear me.
“Goodbye Dad,” I said, “and good riddance.”
Written in response to a writing prompt (Photo prompt 3) from https://creativewritingink.co.uk/writing-prompts