Yesterday a man (my age or quite older, depending on who you asked) pulled a chair up to his mother’s casked, climbed atop it, and sat there. Sat on her casket, leaning against the wall.

He is, in the words of my co-workers, “Not right.” That’s up there with “Bless her heart…” and “Somebody needs to pray for him,” ie, Southern euphemisms for (in their opinion) disdainful, impolite topics (sluts, alcoholics and mentally retarded people*) – like the mom in St. Elmo’s Fire.

He’s got the cancer.


*those three words  matching the aforementioned phrases, in chronological order, not grouped together as having anything in common – other than things well-bred Southern women won’t mention by name


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