This story takes place a few hours following the death, but prior to the burial, of an incredibly sweet retired night shift French postal worker who died of cancer. He left behind a car, a cell phone, a house, some land, minimal furniture, his widow of fifty five years, and an adoring granddaughter
Son number one together with the daughter-in-law and the kids arrived before us. They got the guest room number one. Son number two also arrived before us and occupied the last guest room. Sons discussed who would inherit the dead man’s car, a beige colored Renault Scenic. Settled. Daughter-in-law gets it, provided that son number one pays half the agreed upon value of the car to son number two. Son number two took the dead man’s late model Samsung Galaxy without negotiation.
We arrived and got the dead man’s room as all guest rooms were taken. I took his side of the bed. I sat on the bed and looked around. I saw medicine on the night stand. I began googling their generic names. Alprazolam=Xanax. I inhaled double the dose, as their expiration date had passed.
I slept fine.
Woke up in the morning and left the room to get coffee. On my way back, I noticed the widow sitting on the same bed crying. Son number one remained in the guest room. Son number two played with the Samsung Galaxy.
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