Que sera, sera.

O.K. So, I haven't wrote a story in some time so be patient with me. I'm out of practise. I welcome criticism- as long as it as constructive! :)

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Mark felt numb during the funeral. He could barely manage to get his hoarse voice to sing. He chuckled to himself when psalm 23 was announced- it brought back fond memories.

"I don't want psalm 23 to be sung at my funeral!" Anne had demanded, "No, actually I do- just not as everyone else knows it!"

She had then went into the details of how she wanted psalm 23 to be sung. Mark, at the time, thought it that her dark humour was acting up and thought nothing of the funeral talk. Little did he know of the months, no weeks, the doctors had given her to live. She had only told him what was happening to her when she got really sick; too sick to pretend she was well.

Mark shook his head, I had promised himself that he would be strong; at least until the funeral was over. He turned his attention back to the congregation who were singing psalm 23 version A; not B and to a tune called Slain; instead of the usual Crimond. The result was... different.

Mark rose his voice as a kind of salute to his wife who even in death was infuriating her distant relations; all of whom were flummoxed by the different version and tune of the psalm.

The rest of the affair was almost like a dream to Mark; he was vaguely aware of unwrapping his little girl's arms from around his leg so he could help carry the coffin out the church and asking someone to mind his son while he did so, even when he dropped the first shovel of soil onto Anne's coffin, he felt as if he was watching someone else do it.

Mark left the wake early and sat in his car with his children in the back. he kept stealing glances at them through his rear view mirror. How was he going to provide for them now?

When Anne was alive, she had always worked to make ends meet. He didn't have the income to raise two kids. If he worked greater hours, he would have to pay a child minder and wouldn't be much better off for it. He didn't have any relatives and he wasn't confident that any of Anne's would give them the love they deserved.

Mark searched for a way he could be together with his children. He couldn't find one other than that way. Anne would hate him for it. She would have called him a coward, stupid and many other names under the sun. But Mark was desperate, he couldn't let his children be taken away from him. They were all he had left to live for.

Mark started the car and drove slowly; trying to find a good place to end it all and be together with Anne again. At last, he found it and stopped the car at the top of a cliff. He opened the window and let the sound of the waves and the sea breeze wash over him. This was a good place.

"When I was just a little girl, I asked my mother, what will I be?"

Mark started and turned his head around to see his daughter singing with her little sweet voice.

"Will I be pretty, Will I be rich?"

She was sitting cuddling her teddy bear like her life depended on it. Mark gave her a sad smile. She was old enough to remember, old enough to understand that she would never see her Mummy again and brave enough not to cry in front of her fragile Daddy.

"Here's what she said to me,"

Mark then turned to his sleeping son. The luckiest or, perhaps, the unluckiest out of the trio. He was not yet old enough to remember his mother, he wasn't old enough to understand. But, he was the only one who would never get to know his mothers hold, her kindness and her patience. In that sense, he was the worst off and he didn't even know it.

"Que sera, sera, what ever will be, will be,"

Did he really have the right to take their lives away from them? They still hadn't seen the world. They could see so much and do so much, if only they were given the chance to. Could he really take that chance away?

"The futures not ours to see,"

No, he couldn't. No matter how difficult it be; no matter how impossible it might seem. There would be sad times, he couldn't deny that. But the sad times would be outweighed by the happy times. Mark had to believe that. He wouldn't be totally helpless, he had friends who would help, there was charities that could help. 

Mark smiled, a fond memory of something Anne had said after he had lost his last job popped up, 'Don't despair, Mark. After all, you get see the greatest of miracles in the most desperate of times!'

Anne had been a strong believer in miracles, Mark wasn't. But, if even for the sake of his children and for her memory, he would try to believe.

Mark sighed, he had found his resolve. He put the car into reverse and, before he lifted the hand break, he anticipated the last line of the song his little girl was singing and joined in, "Que sera, sera."