Funeral Operation.

Bo and I are good at funerals now. We had a memorial service to go to today, for my father’s cousin.  Dad wasn’t coming because he can’t go into the old neighborhood without breaking down.  So Bo and I were there to represent. Usually it’s best if I go alone, because then I can slip in, make pleasant, and get out like a ninja, but it was nice to have Bo along to draw some of the fire.

My father’s cousin was a kind, patient, gentle man who put everyone at their ease. He was great for when we had to go to family functions on Dad’s side, because Dad hates most of his relatives and we never really got to know them. I sort of don’t mind this. Then again, they mostly think I am a lesbian because I’m not married. It’s handy to be a sometimes-lesbian, actually.

Anyhow, we’re on the bus on the way up there, and we crane our necks to see our old house.

“They painted it. It’s blue.”

“Huh. Looks fresh.”

“Nice.”

I turned to my brother. “Look at us with the well-adjusted. High five.”

At the memorial, we made small talk with Ghastly Aunt and Bigoted Uncle and listened to people talk about the deceased, how kind and gentle and patient he was. Then I raised my eyebrow at Bo, he swilled the last of his wine,  and, like smoke, we were out of there. A textbook operation.

As he was about to board his bus downtown, Bo held up his fist. “Good funeral.”

I punched his fist. “Nice one.”

Yep. We’re very good at funerals.

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