Tribute To the Horrid Selfish Mrs V

A horrid old woman, mean, word cantankerous would have been too nice. Mrs. V. would have stolen your pocket book, more than once, maybe thrice. She had no integrity, certainly no thoughts of anyone else. She was an angry woman, who always thought only of herself. If you had tripped, and fallen over a jagged, rusty, old stick. She would have laughed hard. She would have made fun of you, mean and so thick. She would have kicked you while you were down, perhaps punched you down the hall. She would have slapped her knee to have seen you take that horrible fall. Mrs. V’s funeral was held on a cloudy, bleak, let’s-all-go-to-hell day. Six of us huddled together, trying to think of a reason to pray. The perfect weather for her, the five said who resentfully attended. Never nice, or kind, and certainly a newcomer she never befriended. She was a relative, one I did not claim. Everyone knew her. We all knew her name. She was as mean as a bull. Being sour and dour and unhappy was her game. The minister had met Mrs. V. once. Her language had turned his ears red. He was one of us unhappy six who showed up just to make sure she was dead.