Content Warning: childhood grief for a parent
It were a clear blue day, what with the factory shut for the funeral and wake.
Colin was slumped in the pub garden's swing, his straw hair sticking out every which way despite his mam's best efforts with the Brylcreem. Me and Trev were stood by quiet, our hands lost in the oversized pockets of our borrowed suits. Trev's cheeks had gone red and purple in the heat, his top button still done up and straining against his neck.
Mark came back out the pub with a plate of sausage rolls that he offered round.
"What's it like in there?" I asked.
"Grim," said Mark. "Your Uncle Gareth's lost his jacket, and then he says it doesn't matter compared to losing Colin's dad, and then he starts crying again. Seen it happen three times while I were at the buffet."
"Yeah, well," I said. "Best mates, weren't they?"