Seventeen Funeral Cards In His Pocket

Seventeen funeral cards in his breast coat suit pocket Waiting to be discovered, after his death. Filling it up, folded neatly, in a row, We could have remarked on it. No one did. Dad looked at them briefly, Knowing most. But not all. They got tossed. Either now or later. Evidence he had friends. Or acquaintances at least. We never saw him with any of them. Two old ladies were at his funeral. No old men. I watched them put his card in their purses. “Only 89,” one said sadly. The other one laughed.