The Donut Shop ✔️

'F' Stands for 'Funerals'

Mrs. Heifenmeir was buried at noon, and the whole town came. Even if someone didn't personally know her, chances are, someone they knew did. 

When Ethan woke up the morning of the funeral, the weather, gloomy and rainy, reflected his mood. Silently, he slipped on his button-up shirt, then his suit jacket, staring forlornly at the tie, limp in his grasp.

It was bright blue cobalt, and Mrs. Heifenmeir had given it to him for his birthday a year ago. It was, by far, his most prized possession.

"Happy birthday, man!" Tweed shouted and blew a noisemaker a little too close to Ethan's ear. 

For this occasion, Sol Bakery had been dressed up with shiny helium balloons, which adorned every corner of each table, and a myriad of party decorations, all picked out by Tweed, who ensured that everything was perfect. 

"Are you ready to cut the cake?" Tweed whispered to Ethan this time. Still, Ethan shook his head, adamant that he wasn't just waiting for nothing.

"He said he's on his way," Ethan insisted. He continued staring straight at the empty street of the town square through one of the sun-shaped windows, painted to resemble a toucan's beak. 

It was almost as if the yellow-orange rays of happiness mocked him as he stared through them. Even though he wasn't looking directly at the color, he saw it all around him.

"Hasn't anyone told you staring at the sun hurts your eyes?" 

Mrs. Heifenmeir stood directly behind Ethan's cushioned chair, her hands behind her back in a grandmotherly way. The gentle fabric of her green, floral-patterned dress, which was fading in color from a few washes, reminded him of home.

"Oh," was all Ethan managed to muster up. With a dramatic sigh, Mrs. Heifenmeir plopped down on the seat beside him, complaining about her aching back. 

"Mein Schatz, listen to me. Your father still loves you, even if he doesn't come," Mrs. Heifenmeir said to Ethan in a lower tone than before. That was the least condescending he had ever heard Mrs. Heifenmeir speak.

"How do you know?" Ethan asked, and her wrinkled eyes portrayed her smile more than her thin and coral lips did. 

"When I was your age or a little younger, my brother went off to war, and he sent a letter home every Christmas. One Christmas, I did not receive a letter, and he was gone," Mrs. Heifenmeir spoke, lowering her gaze a little. "Just because he did not send a letter did not mean he didn't love me. He loved me just as equally then as he does now."

"Yeah, but he was also dead," Ethan murmured and shifted his gaze to the varnished oak of the table. It seemed to fit perfectly into the interior of the bakery, which was adorned with brick walls, concrete floors, and Mrs. Heifenmeir's collection of photos taken over the years of friends, family, and customers. 

Pursing her lips, Mrs. Heifenmeir reached into her pocket. When her hand emerged again, it contained a mid-sized box. The box itself didn't appear to be much, just a regular cube lined with fabric and wrapped with ribbon.

Mrs. Heifenmeir pushed the box into Ethan's hand with a grunt, and slowly, Ethan received the box and opened it. Laying inside was a strip of fabric akin to the serene blue of the Caribbean sea with orange shells as a pattern.

"Is this... for me?" Ethan asked incredulously. He didn't think that Mrs. Heifenmeir even remembered that it was his birthday, far less getting him a gift. 

"Yeah. You can wear to my funeral," she joked, causing Ethan to chuckle as he closed the box and turned to her.

"But, it's so bright," he said. Mrs. Heifenmeir waved away his pathetic excuse.