The Eulogy
The Eulogy
I stare down the hallway which seems to stretch into eternity. The drab walls filled with cheap canvas paintings found at any knockoff home goods store. A gallery of family photos, poor resolution and fake smiles abound. Today is the funeral, but my eyes are dry as I walk through my mother’s house. I stop at each room briefly; rooms that represent all the memories. They call out to me, beckon me with a familiar sense of impending doom. The reality of a cold childhood imprinted onto the fading wallpaper. I walk into the master bedroom and sit on a perfectly made bed, adorned with about ten too many pillows. I’m holding a crisp white envelope with my name written on it in red ink, my mother’s favorite color pen to write with. Who uses a red pen? Inside the envelope is a check for $20,000 and that is it. No letter. No parting words.