There goes the woman who killed my uncle. The black widow. Today is his funeral and she’s in a white dress; I think it’s her wedding gown. The whole yard is covered in thick, red mud. For the last three days, the mourners have been coming and going, churning up the ground like they were ox ploughs. The small funeral procession is making its way from the gate through this mess towards me.
Now the church service is over, they’ll be wanting tea. They’ll expect me to serve it to them I suppose. The black widow is not looking so smug now, is she? From my vantage point at the window, I can see how the pouring rain is cleaning off the gel that had held her hair together. It’s stuck all over her face. The hat that stood proud now slumps on the sides of her head. With every step she takes, her high heels, which she must have thought so elegant this morning, keep sinking into the soft mush. The hem of her dress looks like it’s soaked in blood. Clearly, gravity is winning. The smug smile is gone, but in her eyes, that fire is still burning.