The Funeral of Mrs Maynard
A gust of wind brushed the rain into the direction of the family. A cold chill in the air set the day afoot as the coffin began to lower into the dirt, or mud as it was on the particular Tuesday.
Lily Maynard, daughter of the deceased Mrs Linda Maynard lent into her husband, tearfully squeezing him, trying to conceal her emotions from the children, Jack and Lyra. The coffin hit the bottom of the pit and Lily stepped forward gazing down to the dark hole in the ground. She raised her arm and unclutched her fist to let a flower drop to the wooden box below her; the flower was a Lily - her mother’s favourite flower, and where she herself had recieved her name.
“Here now rests a truly remarkable woman” said priest Patrick. “A woman who had the kindest heart and an unstoppable ethic. A love for her family, her friends, and her job. A lady that extraordinarily deserved everything in life, taken from us. Linda Ann Maynard, cherished by her family, her friends, and her community. Lay to rest with her soul-mate, Jeffery Colin Maynard. May god watch you both for the rest of eternity in his holy garden, and you enjoy the peace and happiness together that you have so patiently waited for.”
Lily looked around the grave and questioned the eulogy. “Her community” she thought to herself, seeing only a handful of people outside of the family circle. Mrs Morris from next door stood gracefully opposite her, gazing into her chest. Mr Osgood, a good friend to Colin Maynard, and a long time fishing partner stood next to her, and finally, Mr Greydon the gardener who had worked for Mrs and Mrs Maynard for 20 years.
Lily huffed to herself in disbelief but didnt want to make a scene.
Beside her stood Mr Larson, Tony. Her dear husband of twelve years and her partner in crime to life. He was a brood man, standing over her at six-foot-three, although that wasn’t difficult as Lily was only five-foot-six. He had a chiselled jaw and dark tan, and dressed tidily like the rest of the family. Big beady eyes lurked on his face, the kind to make you feel uneasy but just speaking to him.
On Tony’s left, was the boy. The derelict child of the family, or as he made it out to be - Jack Larson. The swanky, tall and frankly hippie of the Larson’s. Standing just below his father at six-foot to be exact; he had always beefed up his height to his female classmates, it seemed that they must like a tall guy, or as he thought.
Despite his rugged appearance, he was a smart lad. A* in all of his exams and heading to college in three months time. September can’t come quick enough he longingly hoped. Another day with his perfect family could’ve drove -him to kill someone. He anticipated to make something of himself and escape the abnormal perfect reality that his family thought they lived in. Only he could see the clear picture of how imperfect they all were in fact.
Next to Jack stood his younger sister, Lyra - or little brat Jack thought - when they were younger he’d find in the back garden of Granny’s house searching for bugs to squash. She had destruction behind those pretty brown eyes. She always got what she wanted, and if she didn’t, you’d be sure to quickly or else you’d know about it. She always reminded Mr Greydon of the little girl from Roal Dahl’s Charlie and the Chocolate Factory...the one with the squirrels.
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