Boris was sitting on the grass, looking at his hat in his hands. He sighed and reached up, running his hand through his mostly gone hair. He shook his head and put his hat back on his head, then cupped his hands together.
"...things have been good with Chrissy lately," he said, "I got my poetry book published, and I gave her a copy. I wrote a poem for her, about her, and she thought that was neat. It's kinda nice, having her around to vicariously do the things I wanted to do for my daughter when she was her age. John is trying to start a new church downtown, one that's more welcoming of queer people, so that's been interesting." He glanced to the headstone beside him, the one that bore Polly's name, and he sighed again. "...god it's awful not having you here," he whispered,, "it's really....it's truly just awful. I wish you could say something, anything, to let me know that you're somewhere better now. Somewhere where you're...I don't know...not as restricted as you were in life, and maybe able to be happy with who you are. Where you aren't judged for yourself. You got lucky. You got out. I'm still stuck here, just without you." He checked his watch and shook his head, standing up and wiping the grass stains from his pants as a middle aged couple began to walk by. "I'll come see you again next week, alright?" he asked, putting his hands in his pockets, looking at the stone, "I'll wash your rock." "Your wife?" the man passing by asked, and Boris laughed. "No, no, god no. Just a friend. A very good, very missed friend," he said. *** "What is the point of having insurance if it doesn't cover what you need it to? What, just on the off chance it might cover something that happens to me? We're paying for POSSIBILITY?" Burt asked. He and Carol were sitting in Carol's office as she tried to get some paperwork done. Burt was looking through a file she'd finished, in which she'd consolidated everyone in the homes outdated insurance information. "Seriously, it sounds like a scam. 'Well, you might get hurt, so you should pay exorbitant amounts for this thing you'll likely rarely ever use'. That doesn't sound like a financially sound way to protect ones self. I'd rather just go to the doctor. Most insurance doesn't cover basic doctor visits anyway. Anyone who pays for insurance is a sucker, plain and simple." "BURT." Burt looked up, noticing Carol glaring at him, pen in her clenched fist. "Please," she added, "shut. up. I am trying to finish this." Burt nodded and went back to silently reading the file, listening to the pen scratches from Carol's desk while she continued getting her paperwork finished. "I'm just saying-" Burt continued. "Oh dear god," Carol muttered. "-it seems ridiculous to pay for something that won't cover a good portion of your medical needs. It doesn't cover dental, it doesn't over mental. Apparently anything that ends in the 'ental' prefix is right out. There's absolutely no need for there to be a difference. It's all a part of our body, which means it's all medical care. But these goddamned bastards decided a long time ago that it was more financially draining on us to charge for multiple aspects of our health, and there's no way to untangle that web of mess now." "I'm going to show you what good insurance is for in a minute if you don't shut the fuck up," Carol said through gritted teeth. Just then her office door opened, and Larry walked in, tossing a file onto her desk. She stopped her writing and looked up at the file, then up at Larry, who was now standing next to Burt's chair; after a moment she tapped the file with her pen and asked, "...what is this? Please PLEASE tell me you didn't just bring me MORE work." "I didn't. I'm just delivering it to you," Larry said, shrugging, "it's actually something you might be interested in looking into. Someone in the home doesn't have their medication covered, when it so clearly should be, and all because the insurance was under their husbands name." Carol looked at the file, then laid her face on the desk. Larry glanced down at Burt. "What're you reading?" he asked. "A pack of lies, that's what," Burt replied. "GET OUT OF MY OFFICE," Carol shouted, her face flat on the desk. *** John Krickett was seated in the usual booth at the usual diner. He checked his watch, then took a sip from his coffee. He heard the bell over the door jingle, and looked up to see Boris approaching. Boris took his coat off and slid into the booth, across from John, who was just smiling at him. "You're not usually late," John said. "I'm very punctual, yes," he replied, "I had to take care of something today." "Anything important?" A few seconds passed, and Boris looked away from the table. He pulled his hat off and set it on his jacket, then sighed. "...it's been a year," he said, "since...since Polly. Today, in particular, is the anniversary of her OD." "It's been a year? Fucking hell, it certainly doesn't feel like it," John said. "I was at the cemetery. I go to the cemetery every week and talk to her headstone, but of course you know that already," Boris said, "...but something about doing it today was...I don't know...somehow sadder than usual. I guess it made it sink in how final it all is. She's just not here anymore. She was here, and now she's not. And I'm still blaming myself. I'm still mad at myself for not stopping us from-" "You need to stop blaming yourself," John said, adjusting his roman collar and shaking his head, "I know it's hard to, but you have to, otherwise you're never going to move on in any real significant way. She made a decision. She was clearly unhappy. If nothing else, be grateful that you showed her, right at the end, that someone still cared. That someone was willing to be there, even at her absolute worse." "The woman was a mess," Boris mumbled, chuckling gently, "she was a goddamned nightmare from the day that I met her, and she continued to be a nightmare til the day that she died. But she was something else the oher folks at the home weren't, and that's honest. Far too many people my age, they like to pretend they've lived lives of no regrets, of no disappointments. That they're happy with the way things turned out. Plenty of them are not, and I know it for a fact. When you have insomnia, you spend a lot of time at night by yourself, and you can hear some of them crying in their rooms. They aren't happy. They're just too scared to admit that, now that they're so close to the end, there's nothing they can do to fix it." John leaned back in the booth and shrugged. "So what are you saying, that life is nothing but a series of neverending mistakes?" John asked. "I don't know what it is I'm saying, honestly," Boris replied, "all I know is this. Polly didn't pretend to be happy. She was pissed off. She was pissed off on getting screwed over time and time again all because of having been born at a specific point in time that didn't allow her to be happy. To feel like a real person. To feel equal to those around her, specifically to the men around her who got to openly flaunt their love for the women in their lives. It was refreshing. She was angry. She was mean...and I loved her for it." Father Krickett hadn't heard Boris speak of Polly in a while, but he was more than happy to listen right now. He was happy to hear Boris try and get things off his mind, and out into an open space. He felt the old man was generally way too closed up, and he needed to talk more. "Is that what made you guys friends? Mutual anger? I mean, didn't you feel the same way?" "I didn't love men," Boris said, laughing. "No, not like that," John replied, laughing, "but I mean, you were a man who wanted to do things that men didn't normally do. Poetry writing was more often than not a womans field, really. Or at least that's how it always came across. More feminine leaning." "There's been male poets for as long as literature has existed," Boris said, scoffing, "I'm not even entertaining the idea of that. But you're not wrong. I do think it was the anger. I was mad at myself for not being a better father, and mad at society for failing to teach me how to be more openly emotional. I failed my daughter. I failed my wife. I failed myself, but that's okay, it's okay to fail yourself. It's NOT okay to fail those who are depending on you. Those you support." A moment passed, and Boris wiped at his eyes with a napkin from the table. "You okay, buddy?" John asked, his voice hushed. "I'll be alright," Boris replied, "I have to. I don't really have any other choice." *** "But why isn't it capable of being covered?" Carol asked, pacing back and forth behind her desk, phone lifted to her face; she listened, rolled her eyes and then replied, annoyed, "because he's DEAD, this isn't complicated. Isn't she entitled to some kind of benefits if he dies? For god sakes, she's 82, she can't go out and apply for a job! She doesn't have the income to pay for insurance of her own!" After a moment, she groaned, then said goodbye and hung up. She looked at Burt, still seated in the chair on the opposite side of the desk, before she sunk into her own. "...I'm supposed to be able to help people," Carol whispered, "that was the whole idea of buying this place, was to be able to do the things nobody else could do. Go to bat for people our age who couldn't go to bat for themselves. But it feels like I get stuck at every turn, and it's infuriating, and frustrating. Nobody will take me seriously." "I take you seriously. The people here take what you do seriously. You do wonderful things, Carol," Burt said, which made Carol blush. She tapped her nails on the desk, resting her chin on her other fist and sighing. "...we could always go see Elaine," Burt mumbled, and Carol looked up. "Who?" "Come with me," Burt said, getting up and exiting the office, Carol quickly on his heels. *** "What do you do when you've made it?" Boris asked, "when you accomplish your goal? If I hadn't gotten this thing published, I'd still have my regrets about not going for it, but now that it's been produced, I don't have those regrets. Who the hell ever ends life fully satisfied?" "Not many do, but those who somehow manage to probably feel pretty pleased with themselves. Smug bastards," John said, making Boris smirk as he continued, adding, "but here's the thing...is that all life is? At the end, do you just run through a mental checklist and cross out everything you managed to do, while sulking on the ones you didn't? Seems kind of boring to me. You think, in those last few minutes, Polly had regrets?" Boris leaned back in his side of the booth and folded his arms, exhaling. "I...don't know," he said, "I really don't. A part of me would like to think that she didn't. A part of me would really like to believe that she truly was happy with how things had turned out. I mean, after all, sure...her family wasn't accepting, society was pretty heavily biased against her, but she did manage to be with the person she loved. So even if they died, so what? Everyone dies eventually, right? I mean, it's sad, but how many closeted people from our generation get to the end of their lives and wind up regretting never even trying, you know? She tried, and succeeded. I think that alone is cause for celebration." "Exactly," John said, smiling as the waitress stopped by the table and refilled his coffee; he took a long sip, then sighed and said, "it's so easy to accentuate the negative, because the negative is the thing that sticks with us. Our brains are hardwired to remember the bad, not reflect on the good. I don't know why we're hardwired that way, but we just are. Regardless, it takes effort to remember the positive, but I say if it takes effort, then it's something worth remembering." Boris nodded, listening. He glanced out the window and thought about Polly. Thought about how she'd feel today if she were still here. She was clearly in a lot of pain, clearly angry at the world, clearly upset with herself. She'd made her decision, a decision she felt was right for her, and Boris had to respect that even if it made him sad. "...there'll never be another like her," he whispered, a tear rolling down his face. John reached across the table and held the old mans hand to comfort him; Boris added after a moment, "...and that's good, because there was only one person capable of being her, and it was her." *** "Why don't I know about this?" Carol asked. She and Burt were standing in a janitorial closet, where Elaine Sylar was rooting through boxes and boxes of pill bottles. "Because you aren't in the circle," Burt said. "And you are?" "I'm circle adjacent, yes." "What's adjacent to a circle, a rhombus?" "Would you two PLEASE?" Sylar asked, glancing over her shoulder before going back to digging through boxes. Burt lowered his voice and approached Carol, pulling her a bit away so they wouldn't bother Sylar again as he started to explain the situation. "This is Sylar, she's a janitor, but she also steals and resells medication. She's also capable of acquiring medication from other nursing homes through her janitorial friends who work at those locations. They meet and swap info and meds, sometimes for free, often for a price. If someone needs something and their insurance doesn't cover it, Sylar's who you come to," Burt said, as Carol looked over him to get a good sight of the young drug lord in their midst. "And this is just...happening? I was never informed of this?" "Because would you have allowed it?" A moment, and then Carol shook her head, and Burt nodded. "Exactly," he said. "Here," Sylar said, approaching them, hand outstretched as she handed them a bottle, saying, "give this to them. This is what they need. You know, people often give me shit for my way of making money without thinking about the fact that the insurance business is an even bigger racket, generally full of worse criminals than I am. I'm not ripping anyone off. I'm stealing things that are no longer needed, and redistributing them to those in need, because the government apparently cannot be bothered to care for their own citizens, either young or elderly." Carol took the bottle and looked at it in awe, before looking back at Sylar. "....so sure, I'm a drug dealer, whatever. But at least I'm honest about it. At least I'm not hiding behind a guise of helping people when in reality my business is ripping them off and sucking them dry financially," she said, "that's what's most despicable is these companies absolutely adamant belief - their utter conviction even - to their own lies. I'm a thief, but I'm NOT a liar." Carol smiled and shook Sylar's hand, thanking her. Afterwards, she and Burt exited the janitors closet and stood back in the hall. Burt cleared his throat and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Welp," he said, "guess it's time for this ol' mule to mosey on to where he once came." "Who're you, the Lone Ranger?" Carol asked, laughing, "actually, Burt, thank you. Thank you for your help. I hate asking for help, but...I do appreciate what you managed to do here today, and I'm sure our fellow housemate will appreciate it as well." "All in a days work," Burt said, smiling, as he turned and headed down the hall. Watching him go, Carol realized just how little she actually knew the people around her, despite working for them. She made it her duty right then and there to become better acquainted with those in the home, and befriend them as well. Nobody deserved to be without their medication, and nobody deserved to be alone, especially not at this stage in their life. She looked at the bottle grasped firmly in her hand once more and smiled. She'd get this to its necessary recipient immediately, and then, maybe, she'd take a nap. She'd worked hard today, after all. She felt she deserved a little rest. *** Boris, the following week, was back at the cemetery, back at Polly's grave, but this time he brought his poetry book with him. He sat and he read poetry aloud to the gleaming, freshly cleaned headstone, and he ate the lunch he'd brought with him in between poems. Sometimes he'd stop and he'd tell Polly things, things about what was going on at home, or at the home, or about his new stuff he was working on. But all in all, he just liked being here. With her. Boris realized after his conversation with Father Krickett, that sometimes, just because someone is gone, doesn't mean you still can't spend time with them. She was here, and she'd always be here, and for that he was thankful. Boris coughed and re-opened the poetry book, after finishing the peach he'd packed as part of his lunch. He raised the book back to eye level and smirked. "You might like this one," he said, "it's about you, it's called 'Bitch'." He knew, if she were here, she'd have laughed.
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The reviews were in, and they were being clipped out and pinned on a corkboard in Boris's bedroom. Each day, a new review to be cut from the paper and posted to the board. Then, he'd get dressed, stand back and admire the view, smiling to himself. These people were talking about him, about something he'd made, and he couldn't be more proud of himself. Sure, at first he was worried, scared even, but once he started getting good reviews, his fears and anxieties regarding the situation were gone in an instant. And now, standing in a bookstore downtown and looking at his poetry book on its own little island table, he couldn't believe his luck. Suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he shook, somewhat surprised, until he realize it was just Father Krickett standing there, a book in his hand.
"It really is something to behold, isn't it?" Krickett asked. "Would you call it a miracle?" Boris asked. "...no, no I wouldn't," Krickett said, chuckling, "but to be fair, I don't call much miracles, so maybe I'm not the best one to ask." Boris smirked, then, taking a sip of coffee from the cup in his hand, he nodded at the book in Krickett's hand. "You find something?" he asked. "Need some reading material regarding starting an organization," Krickett said, "Since Jenn and and I are going to do this upstart downtown, we need to be armed with all the possible information we might need upfront before really talking to people about it. It's going smoothly so far, but we want to be prepared." "Solid idea," Boris said, "never hurts to be prepared." "So, how's it feel, looking at your own creation?" Krickett asked as they approached the counter and he slid his book to the cashier; he and Boris glanced back at the island where his poetry book sat in stacks upon stacks, and Boris couldn't help but blush a little. "It feels pretty damn good, John," he said, "pretty goddamn good." *** The noisemaker popped right next to Larry, who quickly threw his hand over his ear and yelped loudly. "Christ! That was right in my hearing aide!" he shouted, as Caroline laugh. "I'm so sorry, but we're celebrating an anniversary at the home today," she said, coming around and handing out noisemakers and party hats to those seated in the lounge area; she continued, "so everyone take a hat and a noisemaker and just...ya know...be in a good mood. I don't think that's asking too much from you guys." "Then you don't know us very well, somehow," Burt said, strapping his party hat on. "Please, I know you guys better than any of your lovers have ever known you and I've certainly put up with more than they ever did," Carol said, scoffing as she put down her supplies and start taping streamers to the walls, adding, "it's a special occasion, how many more special occasions are we gonna have the chance to experience?" "I think I've experienced too many and frankly I'm over it," Larry said, adjusting his position in his chair and going back to reading his magazine, folding his legs. "You guys are the literal definition of party poopers," Carol said, hands on her hips, shaking her head. "Hey, we have incontinence, okay, that can't be helped," Burt said, making everyone laugh. Even Carol chuckled a little as she headed down the hallway, towards the cafeteria. When she got inside, she did the same thing, putting up streamers and various decorative items, while a few people sat and ate lunch. After a few minutes she stepped back and admired her handiwork once again, before noticing Boris was standing beside her. "Oh!" she said, "I didn't even know you were here." "I only just got here," Boris said, "I was out with John, and we went to a bookstore. What are you doing?" "Celebrating," Carol said. "Life in general or something in particular?" Boris asked. "Why would I ever celebrate life in general?" Carol asked, making Boris laugh as she added, "no, it's an anniversary today. I only celebrate special things; birthdays, holidays, anniversaries. That kind of crap." "What's the anniversary?" Boris asked, and Carol stopped and exhaled. Should she even say? Would it take away any of the special feeling the day held if she shared the real reason for the celebration? She hesitated, then turned and looked at Boris, smiling warmly. "Nothing you need to worry about," she said. *** Regina Whittle was putting dishes away in the kitchenette of the apartment as Chrissy sat the table, doing homework. Neither had said anything to one another, but that was kind of how they preferred it. Each liked to live in silence amongst someone else's presence. It felt far more comfortable than trying to make conversation that neither was truly invested in. Chrissy bit the top of her pen and then put it down on the table and turned in her chair, looking at Whittle as she pulled open a cabinet and started stacking plates inside it. "If the school told me that they needed to talk to my parents, would you go?" Chrissy asked, "I mean, you're not my mom, but would you?" "We enrolled you, so I don't think they care much," Whittle said, "you've been living here a while, so I'd say it's fair to say we're your legal guardians for the time being. Why?" Whittle stopped and leaned against the counter, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. "Cause we're supposed to have parent/teacher meetings, and the teachers are supposed to show our parents what we've been doing, and what we've been excelling at, but obviously I can't just go and ask my parents to go. That's why I was asking if you guys would go." "What, me and Boris together?" Whittle asked. "Or you and John? If it feels weird to go with an old man," Chrissy said, "John is closer to your age, he could pass as a father figure." "Well, I wouldn't want to outright lie, Chris," Whittle said, sitting down at the table now, "why do you want us to lie?" "Is it a lie? I mean, you said it yourself, we're a family, right?" Chrissy asked, "that we all live here, under the same roof, and-" The door to the apartment opened, and Boris and Father Krickett entered, in the middle of conversation. "You're telling me that you only like chocolate that has coconut inside?" Boris asked, "You have to be one of the only people I've ever heard of who prefers coconut to literally anything else. That's quite the refined palette you have there." "Well," Krickett said as they entered the kitchen, "what can I say? I like the finer things in life. Like really old wine and annoying old men." "Annoying? How dare you," Boris said. Whittle patted Chrissy on the back, and she gathered her things from the table and headed to her bedroom. Boris pulled the fridge open and rooted around inside as Krickett sat at the table and started leafing through the book he'd picked up from the store. Whittle nodded towards the book, curious. "You find something that'll help?" she asked. "You know," Krickett said, crossing his legs, "they never tell you how hard it is to establish a church, or even a branch of a church. Apparently it's the same as any business, until it comes to paying taxes. Then again, I guess it's not that different, considering most business avoid paying taxes too. But Sister Jenn and I are hoping to have this open sometime next year, if we can secure the building. We've picked out the spot and everything, and we have the money, it's just a matter of contractors and city terms." Whittle nodded, scratching her nose as she turned away from John and looked back at Boris, who'd pulled a sandwich out of the fridge and was plopping it into the microwave to warm it up. "We have to talk," Whittle said, tapping the back of the chair with her nails, "Chrissy says that her school has a student teacher meeting thing, and that someone is required to come and represent her. I guess we're her legal guardians, though not legally really, but I was wondering if you were interested. If not, John and I could go." "Whoa whoa whoa, I'm not raising your kid," Krickett said, making them chuckle, before he smiled and said, touching Whittle's arm warmly, "I'd have no problem going, I love that little lady and I'd do anything to help you guys." "I was never very good at dealing with teachers," Boris said, "even with my own daughter, I was rarely the one who went. Lorraine was always the one who dealt with stuff, and on the rare occasion I did have to show up, I never spoke. I don't do well with adults who try and crush kids spirits." "If that were true, you'd hate every adult," John said without even looking up from his book, biting into his bear claw. "Who said I don't?" Boris asked, getting his sandwich from the microwave, sighing, "but...if it's important to Chrissy, if it'll help her..." "Boris, don't do something that'll make you uncomfortable," Whittle said, "you know there's no reason to push yourself into something, especially if you know you won't do well once you're there, alright? We have a few days to make a decision, so we'll figure something out." Boris sat at the table and cut his sandwich in half, then picked up one half and bit into it. As he chewed, he looked at the cover of John's book and shook his head. "Yes?" John asked. "Nothing," Boris said, mouth full of sandwich, "just didn't know you were allowed to read anything besides the bible." John chuckled a little, taking another bite from his bear claw. "You're really pissing me off today, man," he said, both men laughing. *** Carol entered her bedroom and sighed, tossing her bag of party supplies on the floor. She flicked the lights on and looked around the room. The home was quiet, it was the evening now, and she had nobody left to talk to, not that she felt particularly like talking right now. Carol sat on the bed and looked at the mail on the bedside table, the mail she'd gathered that morning, with the one torn open envelope, the one piece that had pushed her to have a little celebration. She sighed and reached for it again, pulling it off the table, sliding it out from the envelope and unfolding it once more. She still couldn't believe it. Celia Barrows was dead. When Carol couldn't succeed the way she wanted, she gave her designs to Celia - her roommate when she was young - and Celia, in turn, had done wonders with them elsewhere. For years, that was how it had worked. Carol would design something, and Celia, being the businesswoman, would pass them off as her own, then send half the money to Carol. It was a mutual, beneficial partnership that nobody even knew about, and now...now Celia was gone. Carol laid on her back on the bed and sighed, hugging the letter to her chest, trying not to cry. When was the last time she'd talked to Celia? It must've been a year ago now, on this day, which would've been her birthday. It was such a nice, pleasant conversation, one that made Carol feel like a young woman again. Celia was the last friend from her early life who was gone now, and it had begun to sink into Carol how little time left she likely had. How much longer, realistically, would she or any of them be here? It was not only inevitable, it was inching ever closer, and it terrified her. Carol's head rolled on her pillow, and she found herself scanning the contents of her closet, full of clothes she and Celia had created together, and she smiled. She put a hand to her mouth to stifle her cries, but she was crying nonetheless, happily even. Celia might be gone, but their clothes would outlive them, and suddenly Carol understood Boris's fascination with writing poetry. Creating something that ensures the world doesn't forget you were here, and you cared and you felt things. This was what mattered. Carol fell asleep quickly, and she dreamt of herself and Celia designing clothes, and when she woke the following morning, she didn't feel so sad anymore. Sometimes all we can do is accept reality, and try to move on. Something only the oldest people can really grasp. *** Chrissy was in bed, reading a book when the door opened and Boris entered. He smiled at her as he sat on the side of her bed, and she put her book down. Boris exhaled, then put a book on his lap and cleared his throat. "So...Whittle tells me we may have to come talk to your teachers," he said. "It's just a standard meeting, I'm sure it'll be fine," Chrissy said. "...my book came out," Boris said, "I thought you might like to hear something." "Okay," Chrissy said, smiling, excited as Boris cracked open the book, thumbed through it a bit until he stopped on a specific page and took a long, deep breath. "For every mountain, there is a lake, and for every sky, there is a star. For every fix, there is a break, and for every plane, there is a car. There is always another, an alternative being, one we might ignore but cannot ignore seeing. There is always an option, for better or worse, for every wedding limo, there is a hearse. And for every family, there is a black sheep, and for every lie, there's something that's true. For every father, there is a failure, and for every me, there is a you." He stopped and shut the book, then looked at Chrissy, smiling, tears in his eyes. "I wrote that for you. Before I met you, I just sort of accepted that my time dealing with kids was over, and that I'd done a shit job anyway so why bother? But seeing you deal with a rough home life, the way I did, the way my daughter had to, it made me want to do something about it. Of course I'll go to the meeting, Chris. We're not your parents, but god dammit do we love you, and wanna be there for you." "...you wrote me a poem?" Chrissy asked, hugging her knees. "Yeah," Boris said, "you needed a change, so you made one. I needed a change, and you were an inspiration for building to change. I'm not your grandfather, but I definitely care for you the way one would. I just want to see you be safe, happy, successful, especially if it means I get to help you be that. Otherwise, what's the point of living to be this age if you can't help those younger than you? What's the point of accruing wisdom if you don't intend to share it." Boris kissed her on the head, then tucked her in and gave her the book. "This is for you," he whispered, "it's your book now. Now get some sleep." Boris exited, shutting the bedroom door behind him. Standing in the hallway, he saw John pulling his jacket on and the two men stopped and looked at one another for a moment. "You taking off?" Boris asked, putting his hands in his pockets and approaching. "Yeah, figured I should get a good nights sleep. Sister Jenn and I have meetings all day tomorrow with investors and contractors," John said, "...you know, seeing your book in the store today, it made me realize just how far you've come. Seriously, you're a much different man now then you were when we met. I'm proud of you." "Awww, thanks dad," Boris said, making John laugh. "Seriously Boris," he continued, opening the door and stuffing his book in his coat pocket, "you put something into the world that didn't exist before. I mean, you did that with a child too, but you know what I mean. Something eternal. Something that won't go away, unless of course the world turns to ash, but by that point who would care?" "Not makin' me feel better, John," Boris said, chuckling. "When we get the church up and running, please, come by and see it," John said, "because I wouldn't be doing it if I didn't have people around me who felt the need for comfort in places they couldn't find it before. I think all the things we make as people - be it art or other people - is highly facilitated in its creation by the people around us. So for someone so anti religious, how's it make you feel knowing you're somewhat responsible for the creation of a new church?" Boris chewed his lip and nodded. "Pretty disgusted, not gonna lie," he said, "might have to start worshipping Satan, actually." John and Boris cracked up and hugged, then Father Krickett turned and left. Boris went to bed himself shortly after, but before he fell asleep, he laid in his bed and read some of his poetry book first. After all, he'd waited his whole life for this moment. He may as well savor it. |
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Golden Years follows the exploits of a bunch of old people in a retirement home as they try to have fun, relax or come to terms with the soon to be end of their lives. Archives
April 2024
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