I spoke with a friend of mine in Washington recently. She lost her husband a few years ago. In June of this year, she finally sold their house. She’s moving into a retirement community, and is excited to be starting this new chapter in her life.
On this particular weekend, she had begun to move into her new place. She was carrying her husband’s urn from the car to the condo, when it slipped out of her hands. It hit the ground with a clatter, popped open, and spilled hubby all over the walk. There was nothing to do but scoop him up and put him back. She got her little broom and dustpan, and began sweeping him up. She was so rattled that she didn’t notice the little muddy clump of dried grass she’d swept up along with the ashes. Her next door neighbor came over just then. She’d heard the clatter, and decided to check on her. When my friend explained what had happened, she got this horrified look on her face and asked: “Was that poo in there when you got him out of the mortuary?!” My friend’s hubby had quite a sense of humor. It must have rubbed off on her, because she looked up at the lady and replied: “Yep, that it did. He was always getting lost when he was alive; even with a map, he’s get lost. He must have thought he was in Hell when those flames hit him, and pooped.”
Love you from Cafe du Mondieu
Copyright by Marina Morrison (aka) Eden Stillwater, August 9, 2019, 12:04 p.m.