Ah, Bert.
Knew the guy since, hell, All our lives. Work, Army, college, school. First thing I remember is Bert and me, playing in the dirt in our back yards.
Damn, I feel old.
Yeah, I’m the executor of his will (which reminds me, I’m making you mine, okay?)
Problem is, halfway down it, he asks to be buried with his trumpet.
Trumpet? What trumpet?
You remember any trumpet?
I don’t.
Seventy years, I knew him. No trumpets.
Piano, sure.
Maybe it’s a typo.
Piano. Trumpet.
See?
We’ll bury him with his piano.
Here’s a shovel.
We’ll dig over here.