Composed for the prompt, I'm not ready for this.
|I'm Not Ready For This Carol sighed. She could hear her family members in the other room. They never were a quiet bunch. Just for them, she'd endured a great deal of fussing and primping. Her daughters had insisted that her fine hair be curled: not too tightly. They'd also suggested that her make-up be natural-looking; just a hint of blush with a pale pink lipstick. Not surprisingly, her girls had chosen her outfit and her jewellery, too. She had taught them well; the earrings matched the silver thread in her dress. They knew how to make their Mama feel special. This was a momentous day in Carol's life and she wanted to make a lasting impression. Relatives she hadn't seen in a long time were waiting to lay their eyes on her. This occasion was seventy-four years in the making and Carol hoped she appeared as good as she felt. She was touched to see and smell her favourite flowers; yellow roses seemed to be everywhere. Carol had rarely been treated to such sumptuous attention. With a bit of apprehension, she saw the heavy oak doors swing open to admit a steady stream of people. Muted music began to waft through the perfumed air and she noticed the insistent buzz of whispered conversations. Suddenly, Carol realized that her daughters were weeping and she was helpless to comfort them. Unable to move or respond, Carol bore witness to many a eulogy. From her rose-blanketed coffin, Carol could only think, I'm not ready for this. 254 words|