Friday Flash: The Dutiful Daughter
Chloe blew her nose and managed a threadbare smile.
"Are you ready to do this?" her husband asked and she nodded, looking at the boxes all around them. How could an entire life be contained in these boxes?
"Yes, let's get it done," she replied. "I've been thinking about it all week, I know what I want for him."
They sat down together and reviewed the information on the screen. She was trying so hard to take it in, but all she could really think about was not having a father any more. With both parents dead, she was orphaned in the world, she was now the eldest generation in her family.
"Why don't you just tell me what you had in mind," Chris said, pulling her back from that chasm.
"I want a big plot. With a great view, over fields, you know, calming. Somewhere peaceful. I want a prominent position too. It needs to be easy to find. He… he had a lot of friends and they'll want to pay their respects." She broke down. He gathered her into his arms and waited until she'd calmed. "Sorry," she mumbled, blowing her nose again.
"No need to be sorry," he said softly. "You're grieving. It's natural. I think I can sort it out if you want, or at least fill in the admin for the plot. Why don't you get some fresh air and I'll give you a shout when it's done. I won't confirm until I've got it set up, and you've checked it all, ok?"
She navigated through the twisting labyrinth between the stacked boxes and stepped out into the garden. She frowned at the blue sky and singing birds. It seemed so inappropriate. She wanted torrential rain, damp, miserable cats hunkering under the lea of the shed roof and silent birds. Not this pleasant spring day. And not for the first time, she wished she smoked. It seemed to be the perfect time to inhale something noxious.
It felt like no time at all before she heard him calling her back in. She couldn't believe that she was about to organise a memorial plot for her father. How could this be happening?
"I've filled in the forms, it's all ready to go," he said quietly. "There's a mock up of the plot if you want to see it?"
She nodded and slid back into the chair next to him.
There was a beautiful picture of quintessential English countryside; rolling fields, little hedgerows and grand trees in their splendid summer raiment. She nodded, and for the first time that day, she smiled. "It's perfect."
"Want to see it with the text added?"
She took a deep breath and nodded, steadying herself. He clicked and the memorial site words phased into view at the bottom of the picture.
"Here resides the "Somerset Shenanigans" blog maintained by Mr Paul Cunningham from November 2001 – April 2027. Comments are open for well-wishers and messages of remembrance."
"They take care of the migration, and your email address has been given for the admin, so you'll see the messages from his community when they leave them," Chris explained. "I've picked a premium package, so the memorial plot is visible as soon as people go onto the site. It's on the home page for a month, then archived and found through the search function. Are you happy with it?
"It's perfect," she wept. The last loose end was taken care of now. There was nothing else to do except wait for the house clearance company. She leant across, and clicked the "Submit" button herself. "Goodbye Dad," she whispered, as the real legacy of his life went to its final resting place.
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This flash was inspired by a discussion at a local social media event called Brrism way back in February, but I never published it, and if I'm truthful, I forgot all about it. Reading Pam Slim's post about her daughter's birthday today reminded me, and I decided to dust it off and put it here. A little morbid maybe, but our children will be the first generation who have to think about how to lay our virtual lives to rest as well as our real world ones…
