Please Eat the Lunch When I’m Dead: Fiery Autumn and Sensible Friends

Pleased and grateful to announce Please Eat the Lunch When I’m Dead was given the Editors’ Best Pick Discover Award for excellent writing on WordPress.

Thanks to editor Michelle W. at WordPress and to all my readers.

A Word, Please. . .

This morning my husband and I went to a service at a church built in 1849, wood framed and white steepled. Grey headstones with white lichen chill as hoarfrost rise in a tidy graveyard in the back. Inside, the old pews are tiny, built when the average man was 5’6”. Sitting is precarious. I feel like a large spoon in a small tea cup about to tip out.

An altar girl whisks past us with a candle; “Slow down,” my husband whispers. “Your candle is going to go out.” He speaks from ancient altar boy experience. A couple our age sits in a pew near the front. The wife has bedecked herself for autumn, a wool tartan skirt and orange turtle neck, a wool cap. I have realized too late, after a large investment, that the models wearing turtlenecks in the LL Bean catalogues are weedy ballerinas with long ballerina necks…

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