TITLE: Waiting For Augusta
GENRE: Contemporary MG
Daddy died last week and his ashes were sitting on the display shelf nice and quiet, just like powdered particles of dead people are supposed to. Things had been way too hectic around the house for me to get a handle on what it all meant. I was busy ducking under weepy kissing aunts during the last seven days, and hadn't done much thinking about him actually dying and all. About him being dead and not ever coming back.
All that sad and mad got my chest achy, so I pretended he was just missing dinner lately.
The Tuesday after the funeral, I was alone in the sitting room, sipping kool-aid and trying to teach my pet bird to talk. Mama said we should get our money back because that dang parrot has never said a single word.
"Come on, Phyllis." I stroked her feathers. "Say my name."
And then, miracle of miracles, she did it... in Daddy's voice.
I choked for a second, coughing up purple splatters of juice that sprayed all over the carpet like chicken pox. I was shocked and a little insulted--all these years of me being her owner, and Phyllis chose to say her first words with Daddy's extra-thick Alabama accent.
"What'd you say, Phyllis?" I poked her, hoping she'd talk again.
"Benjamin Hogan Putter, where the heck am I?"
Holy crabapple, I just about peed my pants, because that voice wasn't coming from my pet at all.
It was coming from Daddy's urn.