The Funeral

They stepped forward in an unwavering line, solemnly paying last respects.

"He was so young."

"He always seemed so happy."

"He never failed to make me laugh."

That's nice to know.

"Remember the jokes he used to tell?"

"Of course! And those silly faces."

"I remember his stories."

"Ooh...yes! He used to write a lot, didn't he?"

"There was this story... about some girl... what was it again?"

The Toll Gate Girl.

"Can't recall. I like the one about the pencil."

"Didn't read that."

"You should have. It was hilarious."

"But then again, most of them are."

"He's probably meeting those ghosts he wrote about."

They all laughed at once.

They like my stories.

Uncomfortable silence ensued.

"Well. There goes another fine young man."

"Yeah. That's life."

More awkward shuffling.

"I wonder what he really was like."

"Yeah."

"He was funny."

"And cheerful."

"But I sense there was more to him. Beneath the laughter, the jokes and the stories."

"He just never told us."

"Yeah. The other side."

"What a pity."

Heaving sighs as downcast as the morning itself, they threw in a final clump of dirt and turned to leave.

They never really knew me.