After I
passed, the Church auctioned off
my effects as a fundraiser.
It was my
idea, to let each of
them have a tiny piece of their
shepherd for
a memorial, as
he departed for a distant,
better land.
But that didn’t mean I
wanted my filing cabinets
bought by Bob
Clemmond, who everyone
knew was the town’s worst drug dealer.
He dumped all
of my papers at the
recycling plant. The Almighty
only knows
what disgusting poisons
he displaced all my sermons with.