Constantia and her late husband, George, may have shared the same address but over the last ten years or so they had shared little else. Even their circles of friends were different. Constantia turned up to her husband’s funeral wearing a bright floral frock. Apparently George had requested that people wear something bright to his funeral. As she moved up to sit alone in the front pew she noticed she was practically the only one who had bothered to wear something bright. It showed you how people cared. Even her friends hadn’t bothered to turn up.
Constantia sat throughout the service barely listening. The panegyrics and prayers droned on and on. All she could think was how little a mark she had made in her life: a futile marriage, no children, friends who had deserted her when needed. Those who saw her dab her eyes thought it was grief, but it was remorse. It was remorse for having lived such a trite life. From now on things would be different.
Constantia followed the casket out of the church as if she was in a trance. It was dreamlike, surreal, bizarre - whatever word you wish to use. As she descended the church steps she overheard a little boy say:
“Mummy, who was the funny lady up the front in the dress with flowers on?”
“She a bit strange,” said the mother. “She thinks she was Hector’s wife, but Hector’s wife died last year.”
It was then that Constantia realized she had gone to the wrong church.