This won’t take long; no point getting comfy. I am gone and some of all I had will now be left to you, the hushed assembled. To the business of it then.
Gretchen. Dear Gretchen. You were always my favourite. Take the car. The keys are in the lockbox in the hall, to which you’ll need that other key or a crowbar for the opening thereof. The left front tyre runs down every few weeks. Keep this in mind on your longer journeys, won’t you?
To my youngest, John, I leave instructions on how to find my most precious thing. Turn your attention to the loose floorboard by the sink in my bathroom. My bathroom, mind, not the family room. If some other vulture has not already prised up every crooked thing in the house, there you’ll find a map. Use it. Discover! Borrow Gretchen’s crowbar if you need to. She will also help with transportation, I don’t doubt. It is the easiest way, and will bring you back into each other’s orbits at last.
Any thanks you both might wish to utter will not reach me now.
Jeff, you fouled-mouthed little glob, you can have my spoons and that’s all.
The rest to charity – the hospice and the refuge will receive half each from the sale. Any complaints you give voice to will not reach me either. Be thankful this day I have spared you from that other kind of wealth.
You will heed my wishes or you will not. I am beyond comfort in the earth.