Last Words

Trigger warning: This story deals with the death of a family member.

"Quick, the sardine is melting."

   We looked at each other, then at Dad. The whole family was there, grouped round his bed.

He gave a deep sigh and we all held our breath, hoping for an insightful pronouncement suitable to provide thought and solace for future generations. Sadly, there were to be no more words. Our beloved Dad had slipped away, hopefully to find peace and an end to the pain and humiliation of his final weeks.

   We said our last goodbyes, each in our own different ways, and then we gathered in the kitchen, where Mary, always practical, put the kettle on to make tea.

   Sitting round the table where we had shared so many meals, laughing and arguing as siblings do, we faced the dilemma ahead of us.

   Dad had always had a sense of the absurd and a part of me wondered if he had planned this deliberately. At the same time, he was always a proud, dignified character who was very clear that any instructions he gave would be followed to the letter. Naturally a family row ensued.

   "It wasn't him speaking, it was the morphine," Julie mumbled, wiping the tears away as she spoke. “He wasn’t in his right mind.”

   "He was clear-headed enough this morning. You should have heard him complaining about the way the nurse moved 

Mum's picture, " Rob protested. "He insisted on her putting it back so he could see it properly."

   "He was certainly very clear when he gave his funeral instructions," Mary agreed. "He even knew the numbers of his favourite hymns."

   "I'm not at all convinced that 'Onward Christian Soldiers' was what he meant. He was always a pacifist," Rob lobbed back. I felt that this was irrelevant but Rob had always enjoyed winding his sisters up and couldn’t pass up an opportunity to disagree.

   I wanted to get back to the enigma of Dad's strange utterance but I did not know what to say. They were all correct and desperately wanted to be sure that we were doing what Dad had really wanted.

   I thought back to the earlier conversations and what exactly Dad had said. Could it have had some deep meaning that we were all failing to see?

   A lifelong church goer, he was adamant about having a traditional service and had planned in detail every last hymn and bible reading. He hated the idea of cremation. He himself had reserved, (but not paid for), a place where he could be buried near to Mum, by the church he attended regularly. His grave would be marked with a simple stone. More elaborate

ornamentation was discouraged, which was a relief as the cost of the plot and upkeep was scandalous.

   The problem facing us was the actual wording of the inscription.

   Dad had repeated several times "I want my final words inscribed above my name and dates." We had expected something mundane, like 'Beloved husband and father," or 'He lived a good life.' 

   Even given the influence of morphine, "Quick, the sardine is melting," didn't sound like a fitting epitaph and did not seem in keeping with his other plans.

   "Perhaps we misheard him," Rob hazarded. "What do you think he said Mary?"

   Mary wiped her red eyes and took a sip of her tea. 

   "Well...it might have been 'Kick the sardine, it's belting' but that's even less probable.”

   "Or ' Vic, the sardine, it's pelting'," 

   Julie choked as she tried to laugh and cry at the same time.

   “Maybe its a reference to a picture or a clue to a riddle. He liked reading Dan Brown books.”

   Suddenly we were all laughing helplessly and hugging each other as the tears poured down our cheeks and Rob blew his nose to hide his emotion.

   "Well, I don’t think any of this is helping," I said sternly. "We all know we can't engrave anything about sardines on Dad's stone. At least we should leave him a bit of dignity.

   Eventually we settled down, drank our tea and tried to be suitable solemn. For the rest of the afternoon we mulled over possible interpretations of melting sardines and tried to deal with the practicalities of Dad's passing.

   The funeral parlour sent two strong lads, suitably dressed in black and we stood with heads bowed as they carried him out to the waiting vehicle to drive him to the Hall of Rest. The funeral was booked for a fortnight's time and was likely to be packed with Dad's friends from the church and the other residents of the community where he had lived since Mum's death, five years previously. 

   Every minute detail had been discussed with the family and everyone had been assigned tasks for the coming weeks. Of course, we'd argued and claimed that some had more responsibility than the others but Dad always had the last word.

   As I remembered this it was as if something clicked in my brain.

   "We've been barking up the wrong tree." 

   Everyone looked at me and I felt my cheeks flush hot with embarrassment. 

   "Dad meant exactly what he said," I explained. "He said I want ‘My Final Words.' " I 

drew inverted commas in the air to emphasise the quotation marks. "He always did want to have the last word and that's exactly what he's asking for. It's the equivalent of 'Over and Out' followed by his signature."

   “And you are a genius," said Julie, throwing her arms around me. Even Mary and Rob agreed that my interpretation was almost certainly the right one.

   So that is why we are standing together in the pretty little cemetery, watching as the stone is erected on Dad's final resting place.

   The epitaph reads "My Final Words, John Balfour, 1945 – 2023." 

   Underneath is an engraved picture of a fish...possibly a sardine. This is an image considered quite acceptable by the local church so there is no risk of upsetting them. Everyone is content that we have done the right thing and that Dad had, as always, had the last word.