For the July prompt call: What passes for strange.
Strange. Reality was strange. A man dead without a funeral, because his children said everyone who loved him was already dead. Why did they say that? What passed, to keep them from loving him? Did they mean it? Were they lying? What does family even mean, if it isn’t blood and it isn’t loyalty and it isn’t weddings and funerals and ritual?
Is someone family, if you see them for holidays every year for ten years and they know nothing important about you? Is someone family, if they’re you’re blood and you’ve met them once and they sulked the whole time?
A man raised children. They grew up and raised children. Great-grandchildren happened. Everyone was fed, clothed, sheltered, advised. Would adding a unicorn make this story more believable? Would it make more sense if it was in space?
Reality is the strangest thing of all, and humans contain multitudes. There’s something missing from this story, and you will never know what. Friends are the family you choose, but their family can still tear them apart.
We celebrate the strange. We have parties for the dead, and bless children who are leaving their parents behind. We open our hearts to politicians, who are strange creatures indeed, and dance and sing for religion, the core precept is ‘we cannot know, we cannot comprehend.’
Comprehension is for losers anyway. Love is a mystery, doesn’t everyone say that?
A man without a funeral, loved by many, not loved by some.
There’s no ending to this story.