Although impoverished Jeff found a ride out of Blislisnis to attend his mother’s funeral held in the rural town that he left decades ago teased by vanity that never bore fruit. A former classmate carrying an oxygen tank with nasal tubing who came to offer his condolences surprised Jeff with how old he himself must now look as did other former companions who proudly told him of their grandchildren.
The pastor asked him if he would care to say a few words in memory of his mother. Standing near the casket with nothing to say he tried to form words, but the only thing people remembered him saying was I’m sorry, momma.
Friends of his mother offered Jeff a place to stay with work to do giving this prodigal son an opportunity, which he accepted, to forget Blislisnis. At the gravesite he silently prayed for the privilege of a few years of usefulness, of blessing not burden to others, before finding a spot of his own somewhere in that churchyard, out of the way perhaps, but hopefully not too far away from his family.
Denise offers the prompt word “form” to be used in this week’s Six Sentence Stories.