Calling Elvis

I cried buckets that day.

The rain-soaked mourners huddled at the graveside, black umbrellas like broken wings. The crowd pressed closer, pushing me towards the grave and the memories I would carry forever. Scents that would always cling to this day: the smell of damp soil and grass, cheap aftershave and wet wool.

That final sound of earth hitting the coffin lid. Our wreath sank slowly into the mud.

I clutched my phone, my comfort blanket.

Bampi had understood…the name-calling.

Elvis! - Elvis the Pelvis! - Elvis has left the building!

That bloody ridiculous trophy, 'Dai Hughes. Best Elvis Impersonator. Porthcawl 1991.’

Bampi Rudolf understood name-calling better than he understood mobile phones.

Dad had got him one; I showed him how to use it, and we texted each other every day. He got good at it – C U L8r M8. I told him about emojis, not to send aubergines. Dad gave me Bampi’s phone as a memento. I slipped it into his coffin at the funeral home. He had loved it. Makes me young again, Elv.

I was pissed off by the vicar’s sermon, ‘gone to a better place…meeting on that glorious day,’ but if there was a Heaven, there must be a Hell, and Bampi might be a contender.

I wouldn’t see Bampi again. It was all bollocks.

The wake dragged on—endless handshakes, murmured condolences, wilting flowers, cloying lily smell.

Fuck sorry for your loss.

The buffet sat untouched: curly sandwiches, congealing sausage rolls, cheese speared on cocktail sticks. The hummus remained pristine. Dad drank too much and started crying, which set Mum off, soggy Kleenex piling up on her lap.

The journey home was grim, sitting in that huge car. Dad fell asleep, and Mum just cried all the way. I bit my lip, stared out the window, and clutched my comfort blanket.

I went up to my bedroom, closed the door, switched off my phone, and put it beside my bed. The house felt too quiet. Mum's muffled sobbing downstairs and Dad's snoring from the lounge. I stretched out, and that's when I started to cry. For Bampi, for his laugh, for our daily texts that would never come again.

My phone was vibrating, I didn’t remember setting an alarm, and hadn’t I switched it off? I picked it up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes; the screen showed midnight and a text.

I opened it up, ‘Hi Elv me old M8. How u doing? This is dead boring!! XX Rudolf.’ And he had added a ghost emoji.

I stared at the screen. My heart started hammering. I typed back: 'Miss you, Bamps. XX.’ A thumbs up and a dog poo emoji.

The phone showed the message had been delivered and read. This was real. Bampi was somewhere, somehow still texting. I wiped my eyes and typed: 'Heaven has a good signal then?'

Immediately, three dots appeared…then disappeared.

I waited all night, but no more messages came.

492 words.