Grandpa clears his throat and lifts a hand. “I shall begin.
“Chicken was, without question, a... top bird. A lover of mischief and spontaneity, who used any opportunity to rock ‘n roll.”
Trent and I exchange a raised brow and listen on with growing amusement as Grandpa eulogises, having far too much fun keeping a straight face while he’s at it.
“Chicken was hard of sight but sharp of hearing, particularly when someone mentioned biscuits or rumours not meant for public consumption. Chicken knew more gossip than the entire bowling club and the street WhatsApp combined, and shared none of it responsibly.
“Chicken was a pillar of the community, mostly because standing in the middle of the road until noticed was a personal hobby.
“Music sense? Impeccable. A dancing flirt who ruffled quite a few feathers in their time. Brave in the face of adversity, stubborn in the face of reason, and utterly unbothered by authority, Chicken set the standard.
“Chicken loved deeply, complained frequently, and had an uncanny ability to appear exactly when everyone thought the coast was clear.
“And of course,” Grandpa pauses for dramatic effect, “Chicken possessed a remarkable talent for winning at cards, especially when others weren’t looking. Some might call that cheating. I call it strategy.”
He lets the silence linger, nods sagely. “In short, Chicken lived a life of reckless charm, questionable ethics, and undeniable success. We could all learn a little from that example.”
John, Bev, and the other oldies all murmur. “Yes, we love Chicken. This chicken will be sorely missed.”
And another audible mutter, “I’ll have a chance to win at cards. Good riddance to Chicken.”
“Heartless bastard,” Grandpa says on a snort. “Your turn to talk about Chicken, John.”
John clears his throat. “Congrats, Chicken. No need to worry about the lawn anymore.
“Let’s get a few things straight. Chicken was not perfect. Chicken never fixed that leaky tap. Never returned half any borrowed tools. And would even eat the last ginger kiss in front of his grandkids.
“Chicken was exceptionally committed though. To naps, bad jokes, and second helpings.
“Chicken leaves behind a long list of unfinished projects, an impressive collection of loose screws, and a legacy of questionable decisions.
“To Chicken’s children: sorry about the inheritance, turns out ‘investing in vintage car parts’ wasn’t the financial strategy I thought it was.
“To Chicken’s mates: if any of you still owe this Chicken beer, pour it over the grave.
“And to Chicken’s dear friends and family, Chicken loved you all, even if Chicken pretended not to hear you calling for help moving furniture.”
The oldies snicker. And then, one by one, the rest give speeches about ‘Chicken’, ending with Bev’s “Life’s short, love’s hard, and laughter’s the best engine to get you to the end.”
When it’s Trent’s turn, he clears his throat.
“Chicken and I didn’t always see eye to eye. We definitely had words with one another, and there was an unspoken rivalry over who Grandpa liked best.”
I swallow thickly.
He’s careful with his words. Chicken might be about himself, but I know he’s really speaking to Ika.
“But no matter how much we chirped at one another, it never lasted long. Sooner or later we’d be hanging out in the yard again; we always knew how to forgive and move on.
“Chicken had a way of turning anger into laughter, of making things lighter just by being around. I wish I’d looked out better, stepped in more, made sure Chicken knew how much love was there, always had been.
“That love doesn’t stop now. It’s stitched into our home, our garden, and every bit of kelp I’ve protected at sea.”
My throat is so sore. I want to reach out and squeeze his hand, but drive mine into my pockets instead. My feet shift against the grass, my shadow shifts towards the coffin.
Oldies are humming kind words after Trent’s speech, and glancing at me. My turn.
My turn. Finally. It feels... like I’ve waited far too long.
