Boris stood in front of his mirror, staring at himself in his suit, his hands fidgeting with the neck of his tie.
He sighed, pulled his cap off and rested it on the table, trying to keep himself from crying. The door opened, and Father Krickett entered, shutting the door behind him. He turned and walked to Boris, putting his hands on the old mans shoulders, massaging him gently as he sighed. "Everyone is seated," he said quietly, "You're doing a good thing you know. You were the only one here who ever really got close to her, you're the only one really capable of giving her a proper send off. You're gonna score big points with the man upstairs for this one." "That's what matters, isn't it," Boris said, chuckling. Father Krickett turned and walked away into the room, looking around nonchalantly as Boris turned and leaned against the table the mirror was sitting on. He watched Father Krickett pace around, looking at general furnishings and what have you. Boris sucked his bottom lip for a moment, and then whistled. Father Krickett looked back at him, his attention gotten. "Yes?" he asked. "What's your first name? You've never told me your first name," Boris said, "If we're going to be friends, I think we should probably be on a first name basis by this point, don't you?" "Makes sense to me My name is John," Father Krickett said, "anything else you'd like to know?" "You always a priest?" "Yeah I came out of the womb in this getup, actually," Father Krickett said, making Boris genuinely throw his head back with laughter; Krickett laughed a bit before adding, "Um, not always, I mean we've talked about this a bit, but, yeah. I just feel like it's the right path to be on right now." "How do you not lose your faith, seeing all these horrible things in the world day in and day out? I mean surely you can't say murders or rapes 'happen for a reason' or are 'all parts of gods plan'. That's...that insinuates god enjoys us suffering, and that'd be real fuckin' sick," Boris said. "Um, I mean you're not wrong, no, I think anyone who falls back on either of those sentiments needs to take a step back and reexamine their own worldview first and foremost, because we can't know how god feels about something. We can't just go ask him. We can assume he thinks the things we think are terrible are terrible, but there's no way to be certain. I guess in order to have faith you need to accept that most of life is completely incomprehensible to understanding to begin with. We laugh at absurdity, we fear things that make no sense and music has the ability to make us cry. Life appears to be nothing more than simply a series of unconnected events that eventually lead to a cohesive whole at the end of ones life, a whole that, hopefully, was worth experiencing. Keeping my faith is not so much in god as it is in the idea that the life I've been given was worth being given. That's what I'm faithful for. The hope that life is worth it, not that there's an afterlife." Boris nodded, surprised by this incredibly complex and deeply profound answer from a man of the cloth. Usually, in his experiences, priests just gave nonsensical jargon that only further confused the issue, but John Krickett seemed to be the exact opposite; someone who could, and would, give you a down to earth answer for pie in the sky questions. "...I miss her, John, I really...it hurts so much inside, like she filled a hole I didn't know need to be filled, and a hole that is now only grander in her absence," Boris said, rubbing at his chest. "Grief is...the most powerful pain there is," Krickett said, shrugging as he approached Boris, hands clasped in front of him, "It's a way for us to hopefully process things that seem impossible to process and move forward in a way that makes some sort of sense. I can't tell you what you should do in order to work through this grief, that's your journey alone to make. But! I can tell you that it's something you absolutely are capable of working through. I'm not saying it'll be easy, or that the pain will ever completely subside, but it can be manageable, if nothing else, and I think that's worth looking forward to and making the effort for." "...thanks John," Boris said, "I think I'm ready now." Father Krickett nodded, and exited the room. Boris took one last look in the mirror, and then followed him out. As the two men headed down the hallway, towards the back door and out to the cemetery, Boris could see the crowd already looming. It looked like the entire home had turned out for the ceremony. Had Polly really known all these people all along, and just never said anything? Boris walked through the chairs, making his way to the podium, when he felt a hand grab his and he looked down to see Carol sitting there in her black dress, a large black sunhat sitting on her head. "Hey there," he said, kneeling best he could for her, "How are you?" "I wanted to ask you that question, you're the one who knew her after all," Carol said. Boris glanced at the coffin and smirked, "I don't think anyone really knew her, and I think that's what made her interesting." He stood up again and continued to the podium. Standing behind it, he adjusted his tie, cleared his throat and looked at his index cards, on which he'd written a speech. "Looking out at the many faces that I recognize every day, I know now that I don't know almost any of you. How many years have we all lived together? Too many, honestly. Too many to not know one another better. What's the point of living in a communal space if we aren't interested in being a community? These past few months, hell almost the whole last year, Carol was renovating the home for us, because she thought we deserved something better, and I think she's right, and I think we shouldn't feel ashamed for admitting that. And you know who never felt ashamed? Polly Hawkins. This woman right here in this box, a box that frankly is too good even for her and that's something she herself would admit, was not ashamed for admitting who she was and thinking she deserved more." A light bit of laughter spread through the crowd, as Boris looked at his cards and then looked back at the coffin and sighed. He set his cards down, and picked up the microphone, removing it from the stand it sat on, and began walking across the lawn with it, back and forth in front of the coffin. "Fuck formality. We're old. We don't need to be formal anymore. Polly was...amazing. She was a pain in the ass, granted, and she herself would cop to that, but lord was that woman incredible. She made me feel more connected to a person in the short time I knew her than anyone else ever has. I used to feel like I didn't deserve friendship, like I didn't deserve...anything. But Polly, the mess she was, thought she deserved it all. She was our age, and yet unburdened by the fact that she was as old as we are. She never thought of herself as old. This allowed her to truly continue to live life. She..." He stopped and choked back some tears, running his hand on the white casket with black trim, before squeezing the mic tightly, his knuckles whitening, and continued. "...she should be an inspiration, if nothing else, to how to approach your senior years. To approach them no differently than any other decade of your life. Who the fuck decided that by the time you were 70 you were supposed to slow down, chill out and be wise? Why can't old people be fucking messes? Why can't old people continue to wreck themselves the way those in their 20s do? And I don't just mean with drugs and alcohol, though Polly can attest that that's also worth it, even if it's what killed her-" More laughter, this time louder. "-no, I mean emotional messes, people who don't have their shit together emotionally. Why are our lives supposed to be clean at the end? Who said that life was only for the young? Polly drove a fucking Gremlin. She stole pills from the nurses station and she gambled like there was no tomorrow. But she wasn't stupid. A tad reckless, perhaps, but not stupid. And wiser than any of us combined. That's why I think it's so unfair that she went before we did. This woman, this woman who had...still had so much....so much life to live, and so much advice to give, even if it was advice she herself would stupidly never follow, was cut short in honestly the prime of her life. That doesn't seem fair. And I think we owe it to Polly to stick the course, honor her memory and just fuck things up as much as we can. There's no statute of limitations on living, except perhaps the inevitable expiration date. I'm not telling you to abuse medication or drink when your doctor has recommended that you don't, no, but I am telling you that there's no time like today, right fucking now, to do something you always wanted to do. Just because you're old doesn't mean you can't accomplish it. We've had a lifetime to accomplish things, and we still have more time to spare." Boris stopped and leaned against the coffin, patting it with his hand. He sighed heavily and shook his head. "I'm glad I got to spend Polly's last moments with her. I wouldn't change that for anything in the world, except perhaps having her back, obviously." More laughter, this time with real genuine love in it. "Polly fought with me from the first day we met, and she never let up, even after we became friends. She was, if nothing else, a fucking nuisance." Some clapping and true guffawing occurred. "But she was OUR fucking nuisance," Boris said, "And I am sure as shit gonna miss having her prod me to do more, and be more, than I think I am capable of. She lit a fire in me that I won't ever allow to extinguish. Maybe I can do the same to all of you. But I'm going to need your cooperation. So, who's interested in making the most of the time they have left? Show of hands." A flurry of hands went up, and cheering ensued. Boris grinned as he looked back at the coffin, and, raising the mic to his lips, quietly said "See, you were liked by everyone after all." *** Sitting in a pizzeria long after the funeral had finished, Boris - biting into the third slice he'd pulled from the pie as Father Krickett sipped his soda across the table from him - couldn't help but feel like more should've been done today. Despite doing the eulogy, which then turned into somewhat of a roast, and successfully at that, Boris felt like there was something else he should've tackled. "You know," Krickett said, wiping his mouth, "I think what you said today really struck a chord with everyone. Experts say that the worst thing that a person can do is retire, because once you have nothing to drive you, you slip away easier." "Are these experts other old people? Because frankly I'd only trust people who've experienced it firsthand to be experts at it," Boris said, making Krickett smirk. "I'm just saying that people who have a thing to work towards tend to live longer," Father Krickett said, "and I think you easily might've pushed everyone today, via the advice of Polly, to get something that helps them live longer. A goal of kind or another, something to work on. You know what I mean?" "Did I ever tell you I write poetry?" "I think you may have mentioned it, yes." "I think...I think I'd like to look into doing it again, with more regularity, more...sincere publishing attempts," Boris said, surprising Krickett, who cocked an eyebrow at this admittance; Boris continued, "It's one of if not the only real way I can truly express internally how I feel externally." "I'm all for that, and I'll read whatever you give me if you want feedback of any kind," Krickett said, stealing a slice from the pie for himself, licking the grease from his fingers as he plopped it down onto his paper plate and adding, "...Boris, I have to ask...you're going to be okay, right?" "I'll manage," Boris said, wiping his mouth on his napkin, "It'll be hard, but like you said, the grief is my own to work through, and perhaps poetry is the way to work through it." So the two men sat in the pizzeria and ate and laughed and talked about all the plans for the upcoming years. About the things they both wanted to accomplish, and about the people they wanted to become as they grew. Afterwards, Father Krickett drove Boris back to the apartment and said goodnight to him. As Boris entered, he removed his coat and cap and hung them on the rack by the door before heading into the kitchen, where he found a note on the table. He picked it up and unfolded it, it appeared to be from Whittle. "Boris, someone came by this afternoon, said they were an attorney for Polly. She didn't have much to her name, but there's something for you downstairs." Boris walked briskly to the door, opened it and headed back downstairs. Upon exiting the apartment building, he spotted Carol and Burt standing next to Polly's Gremlin, as Carol spun the keys around on her finger. Boris slid his hands into his pants pockets and strolled over to them, Burt sliding off the hood and into the car as Carol grinned. "Get in, loser," she said, "I saw how you drank at the funeral, so I won't be letting you drive tonight." "That's fine," Boris said, chuckling as Carol walked around to the drivers side and Boris opened the passenger door. He stopped, put his hand on the top of the car and exhaled. He shut his eyes, patted the roof of the car, and then got in. No matter what, he knew now, Polly would always be in his life.
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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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