Blog #1- The Mourning Seventies

The day started in my soggy version of hell. 

I stood in the rain with six mourners staring at a smudged picture of Mr. Evans. As the ink ran down the soaked picture of Evans, it almost looked like he was crying. Not at being dead; in that moment, death seemed like a welcomed alternative. No, I imagined him crying at the sad crowd that stood at his vigil. 

Of the seven of us, two were more interested in his small inheritance than his death. His niece and cousin came in from out of town to gather up his belongings and money and go back to wherever they had come from. Three of the mourners were Evans' chess opponents. That was really the only place I'd ever seen him; he almost always took up a seat in the park and played chess, usually with Old Man Jenkins. The last two attendees were my mom and I. My mom was a real sucker for dead people. In the 70's she spent most of her time going around protesting for them. She had forced me to come to the vigil instead of getting in some extra time at work. 

I had tried to get out of it earlier to no avail:

       "There's no way your getting out of this! That man has a soul to weep for him so the least we can do is come to his vigil." 

       "Mom, I never met the guy, and besides, he's dead, what does he care if a hundred people or zero come to his vigil. It’s raining and I could be making money working this shift."

       "Can you just forget money for an hour to honor a life that was lost?"

       "I didn't come home to sit in the rain and pretend to care about someone who I never saw do anything but play chess in the park!"

       "No, you came home because you lost your scholarship, and if you wanted more money you could work for your father, but you'd rather be in a cutlery museum. Now get an umbrella."

That was the end of our argument. Now I'm stuck here. For the first time in my month back home, I'd rather be at work. And all I can think about in how unfair life is. 

Mr. Evans isn't stuck in the rain.