Quinton Jones

Memories

“So may we all remember Kyle Sumnthers, the most singular man in Fleetworth.” Lost in thought while driving, Lucille was annoyed at that strange lady, with a wiry voice, who spoke at the funeral earlier in the week. Was “singular” even a compliment? Uncle Kyle had been kind his whole life, possibly suffering from being a bit too plain, that woman didn’t seem to understand him very well. The U-Haul she drove barreled down a narrow road that seemed to degrade in quality the further she went. Strands of her neat golden brown hair bounced out of place. Lucille thought she had been close to Uncle Kyle, they’d been inseparable while she was young and even through her early thirties, she frequently carved out time for coffee with him on a weekly basis, but he’d only left her a small dilapidated house that felt more like a chore than an inheritance. It wasn’t her uncle’s primary residence, and nobody had even known the insurance liability existed until the lawyers contacted her for Kyle’s bequeathal. She already had a house; she had money, too, but receiving a small chunk of her uncle's hoard would have been less cumbersome than stripping all of his junk out of the decrepit building, and then trying to peddle it off on someone else. All her cousin’s received a check, or at least she felt fairly certain that was a safe assumption. Finally, she was able to put the truck in park, and paused to stare at the unextraordinary house.