Sancho Panza's Goodbye

Memorial Service

His face grave and worn, he sneaked through the crowd of people near the doorway. He withheld two red flowers in one hand and his speech in the other. Those around him managed faint smiles his way, but none of which were returned.

The atmosphere was a mournful one. Whether it was genuine, however, was a different matter. Every face had a heavy frown, some even with tears, but the man only shook his head. None of them knew Don Quixote as he did; none cared for him as he when the man was alive. While he went on adventures with Don, the others only scoffed. As he found a chair in the back of the room, he asked himself a question; one that needed an answer.

Why do they only care after he died?

By the time he was seated, the priest was about to begin. He had meant to leave earlier, but he just couldn't bring himself to do so. With a wary eye, he skimmed through his half-written eulogy and sighed. Over and over, he had redone the speech, only to throw it away. The words - they just didn't do Don Quixote justice. Even then, waiting for the priest to start speaking, it was far from perfect.

Only when the priest in the front clear his throat did the man look up.

"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. We gather here today under some unfortunate circumstances. A good man died this past week. Now, although he is not with us physically, let's be glad that he may finally be with God." He paused, smiling kindly at the man in the back. "Before I continue, would you like to say a few words?"

Despite himself, the man still stood and stepped to the front. He brought the two red flowers, each fresh and fragrant, but left the speech behind. Taking a breath, he slowly turned to face the mourners.

"Hi," he said, giving a brief wave, "many of you may know me. I was Don Quixote's best friend, Sancho Panza. The priest – what he said was right. It took me a long while to see it, but Don truly was a good man." A few in the back laughed to themselves, oblivious. "I was just like some of you... right now. I used to think of him as nothing more than a poor soul who lived in his head. And that may be true, but he was more than that. He was a great man, and maybe even a good one.

"To say he was just imaginative would be an understatement. Some say he read too many romance novels, and I can't say I'm not one of them. But I do know something for certain: he was the bravest person I have ever had to pleasure to know. However, I also have something I'd like to admit. The only reason I came with him on his quests to begin with was because he told me I'd become a governor of an island. That's the only reason. If he had done otherwise, we'd still be acquaintances."

About to resume, a sudden voice interrupted. "Are you quite alright?" It was the priest.

Sancho tilted his head, confused, when he had a realization. Was he crying? Embarrassed, he wiped at his eyes and shook his head. "I'm fine, thank you."

When he woke up that morning, the man had expected his eulogy to go awful; but, although he did shed some tears, by the time he headed back to his seat, Sancho was satisfied. A few clapped and, to them, he gave a small smile. He may have felt his words had done his friend justice, but that didn't change how things were. Don Quixote was still dead.

Following the service, the man wanted to go straight home. He couldn't bear to see his friend get buried; it'd just hurt that much harder. Instead, head down, he went right for the front door. A rush of fresh breeze immediately hit the man, and he paused, half-way outside. Reaching into his pocket, he took out the two red flowers and sighed. It wouldn't be right. He had to go to his burial.

"Sancho, is it?"

Surprised, the man turned to meet the voice's owner. Her honey-blonde hair tucked behind her ears, its long strains were naturally straight. Blue eyes wide, they conveyed innocence and stood out against her delicate features.

"Yes, that's me." Sancho stepped back into the building after casting a glance outside. He didn't have to leave yet.

She laughed. "I'm Maddie, an old friend of Don's."

"Excuse me?" He looked at the woman as though waiting for something to click. But it didn't. "Really?"

"Yep," she said, but then her smile disappeared. "He would have been happy about what you said. I know it. I'll thank you because he can't. You were going somewhere, so I'll make this quick. Thank you." With that, she turned around and left.

The burial was just as Sancho had expected: hard. He had purposely stood away from the others, knowing very well that more tears were going to be shed. And they were.

After Don Quixote was laid into the ground, those with flowers were called to place them. As he did so, the man did his best to compose himself; to look decent.

This day was a hard one, no doubt, and Sancho knew that the following weeks weren't going to be any easier. But he did know this: he'd accept it one day. Through the moments of pain, this is what the man would remind himself. One day, he'd get over it. One day.