Is it wrong of me to imply that I left the funeral with a deep sense of satisfaction? Let me explain. Pooch was a quiet man who was known for his baking even though he never made a dime off it. Once, I got his back up because I involuntarily spat a raisin across the room upon taking a mouthful of some sponge. I could tell that he thought it was rude, but I felt that it was insane to put fruit in cake, let alone the shrivelled sort.

After that, we weren’t the same.

But me – being a good man – I felt compelled to have everyone like me. I never could let a sour note ring out for too long. There’s an awful dissonance to that. I liked to nip that sort of thing in the bud, and by extension, my phone bill was often extortionate, even with the unlimited minutes. It crossed my mind that the phone company was ripping me off, and I dare say they were. This was the lot I had been handed in life; to be ripped off and forever dealing in conflict resolution.

Some time passed but I knew Pooch had it in for me on account of the projectile raisin, even though he claimed to forgive me and played nice in person. Take note of this; you can’t trust an introvert. What are they thinking? And worse, what are they thinking about you? Surely, in this case, the projectile raisin.

I do admit it wasn’t good that the projectile raisin struck his new wife square in the chin. I presume that’s why they were divorced within a month. She wanted him to punch me in the face, but all he could muster was a trip to bathroom to clear his bowels. Some men aren’t made for confrontation, and they hide from it on the shitter.

A few days before Pooch died, I bumped into him in a culinary shop. He looked pale, but I was thinking about the projectile raisin. Of course, I apologised profusely and bought him a bag of organic raisins then and there. I wished him very well in his baking, and bid him good use of the raisins, even though I didn’t approve of them. I believe he appreciated this.

For the record, I didn’t know he was dying; I just thought he was chilly or needed a holiday. But when I found out he was departed from us I thought it positive that we’d patched things up in time. I could move forward. I’d be okay, and I’m sure that he too was glad it had been patched up as he lay there wasting away on his deathbed. It goes without saying that the last thing anyone wants to be thinking of on their deathbed is raisins.

I do say, there was a nice buffet at the funeral, and I even got a chance to apologise to his ex-wife. She told me to forget about it; it was only a raisin. I said no, it wasn’t just a raisin. It was a projectile raisin. I refused to let her brush over it and deftly insisted that she let me buy her a drink. She accepted my offer through muted sobs, and I fetched her a gin and tonic from the open bar. Pooch must have left behind a decent estate.

As I walked away from the wake, it was with a lightness of being. I felt liberated. Order restored. Resolution makes me feel good. Allows me to breathe. It was undeniable, Pooch and I would never be on bad terms ever again, and there was something comforting about the fact that he wasn’t thinking ill of me. People are easier to manage when they’re deceased. Maybe I’d even proposition his ex after a few days, I thought. But on further consideration, it struck me that she did have an unusually large chin and, in many ways, it was this humongous chin that was responsible for all the stress in the first place.