Tinny

The new preacher offered the standard condolences and took a seat on the old sofa across from the middle-aged woman.

“I know this is difficult but I could use your help with the eulogy. I don’t know if you’re aware but your Momma’s pastor for the last fifteen years passed away a few months ago and because of her health, I never got to know her well. I was hoping you could tell me something about her.”

The woman tugged at the sleeves of her blouse and leaned back in her chair, her expression mixed with discomfort and disinterest. “Momma wasn’t close to her kids. We all disappointed her. I can’t tell you much.”

He nodded, “I understand. Family’s hard. Just tell me what you can.”

“She was born at home, a shack up there in the hills. They called her Tinny as a child. In school, she was Tina, then she was Momma for awhile. When she got older, folks round here started calling her Aunt Tinny and strangers called her Mrs. Bradford. Finally, they just started calling her “the patient in room 138.”