The prognosis was poor. Just a few months more said his doctor.
Walking home, he happened upon an undertaker's premises. He looked at the coffins on display. My next and final resting place he thought. But not yet.
Head bowed he turned and started to cross the road.
It was not the driver’s fault. He could never have stopped.
Just a few mourners gathered at the chapel. But where was he?
The hearse in which his body rode had suffered mechanical failure. He was to be late for his own funeral.
The final sad link in a sorrowful chain of events.
Picture courtesy of C Hase