Write something that has to do with: ashes.
Because ashes from the surrounding wildfires were falling from the sky at this evening's farmers market here in Osoyoos. Bit surreal, that.
We were fully smoked in again as I was heading to the market this afternoon. Couldn't even see across the lake. As opposed to last night, when this was the view from our front porch:
It was actually a pretty good market for me. I bothered to do fruit samples for once (it tends to be a pain when I'm by myself but I just wasn't selling much fruit at this market) and the Gala apples sold pretty well. Sold out of blackberries, lemon cucumbers, pickling cukes, and corn. Sold a reasonable amount of cherry tomatoes, onions, regular cucumbers, peppers, and zucchini as well. Oh, and sold three of my cards.
Not a bad way to end things in Osoyoos, as I won't be able to attend next week's final Wednesday night market of the summer due to a scheduling conflict. Can't say I'll mind going back down to one farmers market per week.
"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust."
There wasn't a dry eye at the funeral. Not because any of us were going to miss Terry very much. No, that had more to do with the mace still lingering in the air from when the police had broken up a small riot at a service nine sites east of where we were standing in the cemetery.
Something about a coveted, hotly contested heirloom going to the grave with the recently deceased, if rumour was to be believed.
A brief pause followed the deacon's words. I was surprised, as I'd expected at least half of the attendees to bolt for their cars at the very first opportunity decorum allowed. To their credit their escape was dignified and to a casual observer may have even appeared appropriate.
I waited until everyone else had left, even the deacon. Then I approached the grave site and looked down at the coffin, partially covered by a shovelful of dirt. Against my doctor's orders I lit a cigarette and took a long draw before blowing the smoke out of my nostrils.
"I could still burn you, Terry," I whispered, holding my cigarette between two fingers. "Just like I promised I would."
I took another drag, looked around. No one was paying any attention to me. I really could do it. My free hand reached into my jacket pocket and touched the small canister of gasoline I'd hidden there. It was enough to do the job.
"Nah," I told the coffin as I turned away. "Better to let the professional do his work with you. Burn in hell, Terry."