10/13/16 Rosetta


Rosetta was proud of her handiwork. Mama Rose looked almost lifelike there in her fancy casket. She was glad the funeral home had let her fix her grandmother’s hair and add that dab of lipstick. For 85, Rose was a fine-looking woman, even dead, trim and with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair. In her favorite black wool church dress, the shirtwaist with gold buttons, she looked almost ready to climb out of that box and give somebody a hug – or a what-for. But the piece de resistance was Mama Rose’s favorite fancy handbag that she’d saved from the 1950s. Mama Rose’d nearly worn it out before she lovingly wrapped it in tissue to put in storage. Cousin Erlene was spitting mad that she didn’t get to the house in time to grab it for herself, and Rosetta knew she’d have to keep an eye on her during the service. That biddy would grab a bag from a dead lady’s hands, Rosetta just knew it. “Over my dead body, Mama Rose,” she said to the corpse, patting her hand and giggling at her own pun. “You’ll be buried with your favorite treasure.”

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