Mildred's Perpetual Encore

Evelyn always said Aunt Mildred had a knack for making a scene. Even in death, Mildred upheld her reputation with unyielding rigor. The will specified Mildred was to be buried in the family plot, naturally. The issue wasn't the burial itself, but Mildred's startling ability to, shall we say, *re-emerge*.

The first time, we thought it was a faulty casket, maybe an overzealous earthworm. Dad just grumbled about 'cheap materials' and 'undignified jostling.' The second time, a week later, Mildred was found propped against the bird bath, looking rather cross, a lone crow eyeing her suspiciously. That's when we knew. Mildred had opinions about her resting place, and apparently, 'under six feet of soil' wasn't one of them.

Uncle Percy suggested cement. Mum suggested a space launch. I, ever the pragmatist, suggested we just give her a tiny umbrella and a good book. We tried the cement. It was effective for a fortnight. Then, one Tuesday morning, a neighbour called, slightly panicked, to report a rather stiff-looking lady waving from the top of the old oak tree. She had, apparently, *climbed out*.

Now, Mildred resides in the attic, carefully arranged in her favorite armchair, a teacup clutched in her bony fingers. We rotate her outfit seasonally. She seems content. And honestly, she's a lot less judgmental than she was when she was alive. Plus, she’s excellent at holding down old tax documents. We call it 'active storage.' It’s surprisingly effective, and a lot less effort than another re-burial. And the crows have completely lost interest.