The Right Kind Of Wrong
The shop's proprietor is amused and bemused. He has to confirm the request out loud.
'An inappropriate card for a funeral?'
'Yes. Not too inappropriate. Just not gloomy. Preferably a bit rude.'
The Grim Reaper is passed over, in spite of being a cartoon.
'This one.' This one has a pastel pink background, minor profanity, a wryness and pathos to it.
Mr is looking at cards for a new baby, cards for a wedding. It doesn't seem real, to buy a card for a death. I don't want something that's an expected formality. I want some thing to celebrate the odd bond between oddly glorious people.
Ian 'Special' Rice escaped from the restrictions of disease, but he never escaped from life. Life he met head on, wailing in like a rookie fighter, like some kind of crazy clown. He learnt from each bout though, more than he let on. We always spoke to each other without restriction. I'm still learning from him.
I'm pleased with the card, I write it out in a hurry. I am often late and forgetful with cards. This one I am determined to get done. In my mind it becomes overwhelmingly important. Card, ink, envelope, stamp: but I have lost the new address. I have missed the post collection. I send this idiotic scenario to my beautiful newly bereaved friend. She answers 'I'm impressed.' It's not sarcasm. She knows of my inabilities, values how much further than usual this is.
The envelope is sealed, the new address is in place. It will arrive after the event, looking so out of place amongst the calm beach scenes and soft gatherings of flowers I am imagining, stood all in rows along the mantel of the fireplace and the windowsill.