Typhoon Maid Thursday. CC photo by Shuji Moriwaki (via Flash! Friday)
Wednesday wanted to be buried at sea. They obliged, setting him to sail, then sink, beneath the water’s lapping.
“Should’ve been me,” Thursday said, watching the surface; still post-submergence.
“Wouldn’t’ve worked,” Tuesday answered. “It’s as it needs to be.”
“Still – never let it be said you haven’t had your use here.” Friday’s eyes remained turned towards the water.
“We agreed!” Thursday’s voice was sharp. “You couldn’t have called the storm!”
“Wouldn’t have,” Friday said, eyes hard now; stare unremitting.
“Wednesday’s choice, ultimately. As always,” Tuesday said. “Guess I’d want to switch things up by now; hang tradition. Maybe.”
Friday’s eyes turned towards the one-handed man to her side, eyebrows raised.
“Sjaund, anyone?” Sunday interjected, smile determined, raising a liquor filled bowl, contents swimming from the sides.
“Too early yet, surely?” Monday said.
Sunday shrugged, sipping. “Won’t be long.”
“It’s time,” Saturday interjected, eyes cast out into the distance. Faces pointed forwards now, together the family watched; expectant of his emergence.