The home was beautifully decorated.
Carol and company had really gone all out, it seemed. The place felt more cheerful and full of life than it had in recent memory, and standing in the bingo hall - which had been all but cleared out for snack tables, decorations and whatnot - Boris couldn't help but feel a sense of pride for his friend as he watched her still trying to put some last minute touches together before the Senior Prom that night. After finishing talking to someone, Carol walked back over to Boris and she leaned against the wall, exhaling deeply. Boris crossed his arms and chuckled at her. "I never knew you could be such a take charge leader," he said. "Neither did I," Carol replied, "I mean, I always suspected as much, but I did question if, when the chips were down, I could actually carry through with my duties, but here we are. You're going to come tonight, right?" "Yep," Boris said, "in fact, uh, I have a date." "Really?" Carol asked, surprised. "Yeah," Boris said, almost blushing, "should I bring anything, or-" "Naw, everything is already supplied, nobody needs to bring anything except themselves," Carol said, "and your date, I guess." Boris hadn't told anyone that for a few weeks, he had been seeing someone, and if he had alluded to it, he was very vague, only saying 'I've been having dates'. The feeling had been nice, going out again and doing things socially, romantically. He'd missed that. Boris sighed and checked his watch, then sucked on his teeth. "Welp," he said, "I guess I better get home, get my suit ready and whatnot. I'm proud of you, you know that right?" "Really? You're proud of me? Gee, thanks dad," Carol said, making him laugh. "I mean it!" he said, "You set yourself a goal, and you achieved it. You bought the home and remodeled it, you realized the death pool was cold and you put an end to it, and now you've put on a big party for everyone to be able to enjoy their old age and celebrate their lives. That's something worth respecting, Carol. You've done more good for this home than anyone else ever did." Carol smiled and looked at her shoes, annoyed at how giddy she felt at being complimented. "Well, thanks," she finally said, "...it just seemed like we were being swept under the rug, and I really wanted to do something for everyone, you know? The people who were running this place were running it as a business, not a selfless notion, and I think we deserve better than being treated like a commodity for some wealthy stock broker. At some point, we seem to forget that human beings - young or old - are not a product to use for your ledgers." Boris nodded. "That's why it's good we have old people like you," he said, "Because the best people to have helping old people are other old people. We best understand our needs and requirements, and we're the ones who will go to the ends of the earths to make sure they're met. Doctors, more often than not, see old people as expendable, and I think you alone have proved we're anything but." With that, Boris stood up, adjusted his jacket and hugged Carol, saying he'd be back that evening. He left the home, got to the parking lot and got into Polly's Gremlin. Boris started up the car and pulled out, heading towards the apartment. *** John Krickett wasn't having the best day. First he'd burnt his breakfast, then he'd shrunk a favorite t-shirt of his, and finally, on the way over to the church, he'd hopped up onto the curb while parking. As he walked inside the church, passing by the pews, he heard someone rushing after him, catching up and walking alongside him. It was one of the youngest nuns they had on staff there. "Good morning father," she said happily, almost chipper. "Good morning Sister," he replied. "What are you doing in here today?" "I came by to pick up something in my office," he replied, "why?" "Well, I was...I was curious...um...a lot of the other nuns have talked about you and they say that you're..." Father Krickett stopped and looked at her, waiting for the shoe to drop. "Queer?" he asked. "In not so polite terms, sure," she replied, "but I was curious if you feel like you've made the right decision to dedicate your life to an institution that doesn't respect or accept you. I myself am queer, though nobody knows, and lately I've been having doubts and-" "Let me save you a lot of trouble for the future, sister," Father Krickett said, putting his hands on her shoulders, "leave. If you're even having the smallest doubt, then leave. My situation was unique, but you don't have to follow in my footsteps. Go be yourself. Be happy. Be with someone you love. Don't marry God. Sure he's home every night, but he's kind of abusive." Sister Jenn smirked at this and nodded, understanding. "What if we left together? What if we made our own place of worship, where we didn't play the rules of the church, where you were free to be with whoever you wanted, as was I, without also losing our field of profession?" Sister Jenn asked. "...I'm interested," he said, continuing to walk towards his office with Sister Jenn in tow. "Well," she continued, "I was looking at space downtown and I noticed we could easily rent a building if we pooled our money and took donations, and we could get tax exempt status because we'd be a religious affiliation. But think about how many queer people there are that want to be religious but are fearful of the church, for good reason. We could be the saving grace to those people." Father Krickett tugged his office door open and started searching through his desk for what he'd forgotten as Sister Jenn kept talking. "Because, I can't speak for you personally, but I've definitely felt uncomfortable here, and I think a lot more people like us would be willing to participate in a church that saw their personhood as personhood instead of something to combat," Sister Jenn said, "...uh, Father, what are you looking for?" Father Krickett stopped, shutting the drawers on his desk and scratching his head. "...Uh...it doesn't matter," he said, "Anyway, I think it's a wonderful idea. We should talk about it more, maybe take some meetings with banks and the property owner and whatnot." Sister Jenn was glad to hear he was interested, but he also seemed distracted. He didn't even finish the conversation, and instead he left the room, and the church, getting back into his car and speeding away. Sister Jenn stood there in front of the church, watching him drive off, and felt all the more confused than she had before he'd shown up. *** "You look so handsome," Whittle said, adjusting Boris's tie and smiling at him while Chrissy ran a lint roller down his suit. "Well thank you," Boris said, looking at himself in the bathroom mirror, "I do what I can with what I have." "It's a shame you don't have more," Chrissy said, making him and Whittle laugh as he reached down and ruffled her hair. "So what time do you think you'll be back tonight?" Whittle asked, finishing the tie and stepping away, hands on her hips as she watched Chrissy continue to run the lint roller down his pants legs. "No clue," Boris said, "Probably late. Carol likes to keep things going far past the point that anyone's interested, so. I'll try and be quiet when I get in." "Did you go to your actual senior prom?" Chrissy asked. "Yeah, of course," Boris said, "Went to all my high school events. Didn't enjoy 'em much, but I went. You were kind of required to and kind of ostracized if you didn't." "It's good to know things don't change," Chrissy muttered, making them laugh again. There was the sound of the front door opening, and Whittle swiftly exited the bathroom, heading out to greet whomever had entered the apartment. While she was gone, and as Chrissy finished delinting him, Boris sat himself on the side of the tub with her and looked at his watch. "You know," Boris said, "It seems like adolescence is the most important time in your life, but honestly...it's over so fast. You're older for far longer than you're young, it just doesn't feel like it because time speeds up and the way we perceive time changes so drastically as we age. This watch was given to me by my father. One of the few things he gave to me, besides lifelong trust problems, and it still feels like I just got it yesterday, even though it's been like 60 years now." "...I'm scared to mature, honestly," Chrissy said. "Well, the great thing is that your generation doesn't really have to, you guys have all but broken down all those barriers," Boris said, "Stick with the arrested development, it suits you well. Stay a kid as long as you can or want to. Being an adult is overrated." They looked up as Father Krickett and Whittle entered the bathroom. "Your ride's here," Whittle said. "You look dapper," Father Krickett said. "First time for everything I suppose," Boris remarked, as the two men sauntered out of the bathroom and headed toward the front door. They said goodbye to the girls, then exited the apartment. Whittle looked at Chrissy and smiled. "You wanna watch a movie and braid eachothers hair while eating nothing but peanut M&M's for dinner?" Whittle asked. "You read my mind!" Chrissy stated eagerly. *** Father Krickett was driving Boris to the home for the Senior Prom, but neither were speaking once they were in the car. Boris was concerned that perhaps he'd done something to upset the priest, but he couldn't exactly place what that could've been. Boris leaned forward and adjusted the air conditioner, feeling it blow on his face as he shut his eyes and enjoyed the breeze. "I can't find my rosary," Father Krickett finally said. "Eh?" "I can't find my rosary. They were a gift from Steven, my ex. I thought I'd left them at the church, but they weren't there when I went to look today, and I'm really worried," Father Krickett said, "they're very important to me." "I'm sorry John, I'll keep my eyes open for 'em," Boris said. "You excited?" Father Krickett asked. "Yeah, ya know what, I actually am. It's weird, too. It's an odd feeling, looking forward to something. I haven't been excited for anything in so many years that it feels like an almost foreign concept to me now," Boris said. "Well I'm glad, and I'm sure you'll have a great time," Father Krickett said, smiling, "...I'm leaving the church. I mean, not for good, but the church I'm with anyway. A nun and I are going to look into starting our own little branch downtown for queer people or anyone else who feels unrepresented by the major religious groups." "Well that sounds fantastic," Boris said, "Good luck to you guys." "But I need to find my rosary," Father Krickett said, "I wanna make Steven a little shrine there." Boris smiled. He admired how much love Father Krickett still had for a man who'd been gone for so long, and he only wish he himself had realized sooner that love wasn't something to run from, but instead to embrace. Father Krickett dropped him off, told him he'd be back to pick him up later, and then went along his duties. Boris strolled to the front of the nursing home, then instead went around the back, and headed towards the gazebo. He climbed up the steps and seated himself on one of the benches inside, watching the party from afar. He wanted to go in, he really did, but he felt nervous. He'd never really done well in giant social situations such as these, and he certainly didn't want to go in without his date. Boris sat there and listened to the records from that large vinyl collection they'd sifted through be played over a stereo, while everyone laughed and ate and danced. He could see Carol through a nearby window, and he was thrilled to see how happy she appeared to be. Suddenly he heard the sound of heels heading slowly up the gazebo steps, and he looked up to see Lorraine. "Hey," he said. "Hey yourself," she said, following his gaze to the building, "...you people watching?" "Far more preferable to interacting," Boris said. "Yeah, you never were one for socialization," Lorraine said, seating herself on the bench beside him, "Still, I'd like to dance at some point. I'm, admittedly, a bit shocked you asked me to come with you, seeing as we haven't done anything together in years and haven't really been good friends lately but-" "I owe you an apology," Boris said, "I was...I was not the easiest man in the world to be married to, but that doesn't mean I never loved you. I've never loved anyone like I love you. I didn't wanna leave. I had to, I hope you understand that, but I didn't want to." "I do," Lorraine said. "but it always killed me because in the back of my mind I thought 'here's a woman who, even after being abandoned, still hasn't divorced you' and perhaps it's just the generation we are that we don't believe in divorce, I don't know, but...god I missed you. I tried to make the same connection we had with other people; Burt has been a good friend, Carol's been an excellent companion, and Polly...but nobody-" "What about the priest?" Lorraine asked, surprising him, catching him off guard. "Wh...what?" "What about the priest?" she repeated, "I mean, you guys have...some sort of thing going." "...John's taught me a lot about myself, most importantly that, uh, if I was younger or he were older, if it were a different time or anything about anything was different, then we'd probably be together, and that's been nice, to stop running from that part of myself, but we're just friends ultimately. He's my best friend, but that's all he is. Well, and my priest, obviously." Lorraine smirked. "I know it's been too long and that a lot has changed and that we may not have a whole lot of time left but I'd like to try again," Boris said, "I'd like to, at least, salvage whatever it was we had." "I'd like that too," Lorraine said, "You've really grown, I can see it. You're the best version of the man I always knew you could be. I never stopped loving you either. I was mad, absolutely, but...I never stopped wanting you to come home." "I got you a flower," Boris said, pulling a blue orchid from his pocket and handing it to her, "it's the same color as your eyes. I know you liked these." Lorraine wanted to cry. For so long she'd wanted this sort of thing to happen, and now it was, and she was so happy. She touched the petals gently with her fingertips and smiled. "It's beautiful," she whispered. "You're beautiful," Boris replied, "do you wanna go inside and dance?" "I'd love to," she said. As they stood up and began to head inside the home, Boris's cell phone he'd borrowed from Whittle rang in his coat pocket, and he excused himself momentarily to fish it out and answer it. "Hello?" he asked. "Boris, this is Elise Bentley with the publishing house," the woman on the phone said, "How are you doing?" "I'm actually in the middle of something, can I call you back tomorrow or-" "Well definitely, in fact that's preferable because we have a lot to talk about," Elise said, "But I wanted to call ahead and give you the news now. Not only are we going to give you a regular poetry corner in the magazine, monthly, but I've talked it over with my partner and we're interested in giving you a book deal." Boris couldn't think clearly. Did he hear her right? A book deal? "Boris? You there, buddy?" Elise asked, half laughing, "I know it's a lot to take in, but-" "I'm here and that sounds wonderful," Boris said, "But like I said can I call you tomorrow?" "Absolutely, just phone my office in the early afternoon and we'll talk more then," Elise said. As the phone call came to an end, Boris slid the cell back into his pocket and looked at Lorraine standing near Larry's Gardenias, admiring them. She looked more beautiful than ever before, and for a brief moment in time Boris felt like he was a young man again. He felt like things were finally the way they always should've been. He and his wife loved one another more than they could imagine, he and his daughter were finally building a relationship worth having, he had found some sort of religious presence in his life and, finally, he was going to be a published author. As he walked down the gazebo steps and across the flagstone walkway, taking Lorraine by the hand, he kissed her on the cheek. "What was that all about?" she asked, "The call I mean." "Nothing that can't wait one more day," he said. And he wasn't wrong. After all, he'd waited 40 years already. What more could 24 hours hurt.
0 Comments
Elise Bentley was having an excellent morning.
She'd gotten up early, she had a new outfit for the day and she'd managed to get her makeup and hair just perfect. She even was thrilled to discover that her favorite fast food place that served breakfast hadn't actually run out of stuff by the time she'd gotten there for a change. As she entered her office, she checked her watch, and saw the time. She smiled. In just an hour or so she'd be meeting with Boris Wachowski, and hopefully have a new, and extremely talented, poet on her hands for her literary magazine. Yes, Elise Bentley was having an excellent morning. Boris Wachowski, however, was another story entirely. *** "My back is killing me," Boris said, groaning as he lowered himself into his chair at the kitchen table; he sipped the coffee from the mug Whittle placed in front of him and then added, "I really wish I could just get one of those titanium spines you read about in medical journals." "Are you taking Chrissy to school or am I?" Whittle asked, and both Boris and Chrissy looked at one another, then looked back at Whittle. "It's....Saturday," Boris said. "It is?" "Yeah." "...oh. God I guess I've been kind of off lately," Whittle said, sitting down as well, "jeez. I had no idea. Well, in that case, do you wanna go with me to the salon and get our nails done?" "Okay!" Chrissy said, sounding excitable. Just then the front door opened and Father Krickett walked in, in his casual clothes. A salmon colored button up shirt with the collar done and black slacks with brown loafers. He stopped at the table and looked around at everyone, smiling politely. "Good morning," he said. "Mornin'," Boris replied. "What's everyone up to for this weekend?" Father Krickett asked, taking a seat beside Boris. "I'm taking Chrissy so we can go get our nails done," Whittle said, "What about you two?" "I got nothin' planned," Boris said, "Actually might even just go back to bed and lay down. My back hurt so much." "I brought your mail," Father Krickett said, plopping it down onto the table, "and resting isn't an option, because you have an appointment." "I...I do?" Boris asked, "...is it with death?" "No! Jeez!" Father Krickett responded, laughing loudly, "God no, just...open this and read it." Father Krickett slid a letter into Boris's hands and waited. Boris hesitated at first, then carefully ripped it open and slid the letter out. He unfolded it, leaned back in his chair and read it to himself. After a few moments, he was finished, and he had to reread it just to believe it. Finally he lowered it, looked at Father Krickett and grimaced. "This can't be real, right?" "Indeed it is, and I'm taking you," he replied. "What is it?" Whittle asked. "A literary magazine wants to meet with Boris about his poetry," Father Krickett said, "I submitted some stuff for you and it seems they're interested, so we have a meeting this afternoon." Boris was without words. Somehow this was both what he'd always wanted and also what he'd always feared happening. He didn't know whether to slap John or hug him. Eventually, he did neither, and instead got up to go get dressed and brush his teeth and hair. Whittle also left to go get dressed, leaving Father Krickett behind with Chrissy at the table. "Can I ask you a question?" Chrissy asked as Father Krickett buttered a piece of toast. "Of course," he said, biting into it and chewing. "...are you like a guardian angel?" Chrissy asked, "I mean, I know you're not dead, but...you seem to watch over Boris a lot more than an ordinary priest would, and it's..." "Sweet?" "Creepy." "Fair. To be honest, we have a complicated relationship," Father Krickett said, clearing his throat, "um, I...I'm not really sure I know exactly how to explain it, but...he's the sort of man that I would have fallen for romantically had he been my age. He's funny, he's driven, he's constantly changing, but more than anything else, he's kind. He comes off as gruff, sure, but in the end, he's a real loving person who cares deeply about those around him." "So...what you have is romantic?" "No, of course not," Father Krickett said, "I'm a part of the church, and he's much too old - nor do I think he's queer - but overall I still feel protective of him because of that. Let me put it this way, do you have a teacher you have a crush on?" "Yeah," Chrissy said, scooting her eggs around on her plate and blushing, "yeah, Mr. Lacks. He's my science teacher. He's really handsome and kind, and we like a lot of the same science stuff. Why?" "Because it's kind of like that. A person you obviously can't be with, but can fantasize about being with, you know? As a kid it's normal to have crushes on people older than you, and that doesn't change with age. I've found plenty of men older than me attractive. Boris just happens to be a special case in particular because I know him." Chrissy nodded and shoveled eggs in her mouth, then chewed and swallowed before pushing her bangs from her eyes and looking back at John and cocking her head to the side. "Yeah?" he asked, buttering yet another piece of toast. "...why do you stay with the church if you can't be with someone, especially if you can't be with someone in particular because of the churches beliefs? That seems like giving into their bigotry," Chrissy said, making Father Krickett think for a moment. "Because, in all honesty, if I didn't have the church, I wouldn't really have anything," he finally said, just as Boris came back out, ready to go. The two men said goodbye to Chrissy and then left the apartment, leaving her alone to think about the state of the world. To Chrissy, if she couldn't be with someone she loved because someone told her it was wrong, she'd be with them anyway. Your happiness should never come at the expense of someone elses comfort. *** "Why do you have a baby monitor in your office?" Dennis asked, picking it up and jiggling it a little. "It's so I can listen to the other higher ups and see if they turn someone down during their meetings, and if they do but I think the writer is worth saving, I'll swoop in after the meeting and snag them anyway," Elise said, not even looking up from her desk. "Wow, that's pretty underhanded of you," Dennis said, setting the baby monitor back down. "Well, we are in corporate america," Elise said, making Dennis chuckle. Dennis strolled across the room, his hands shoved in his pants pockets as he looked at the art hung on the walls and eventually he flopped down in the chair by the window, looking outside. "So..." he said, "you think this guy is really worth it?" "I think that nobody gives the elderly a chance to prove their worth," Elise said, "and I think that alone would be good publicity, but I also do think he's a pretty solid writer and poet, yes. You know me, man, I don't just pick people for fun unless I really think they have something worth sharing." There came a knock on the door and her assistant, Niah, poked her head into the room. "Um, they're here," she said, before leaving. "Welp," Dennis said, getting up, "I'll go gather 'em. Let's see what it is we're working with." Elise cleaned her desk off a bit, refilled the candy jar on the desk and then adjusted her hair a little using her compact. She snapped it shut and slipped it into her coat pocket as the door opened once more and Dennis, Boris and Father Krickett walked in. The three men took their seats - Dennis back in the chair by the window, Boris and John in seats across the desk from Elise - and Elise smiled at them all. "Thank you for coming in to meet with me," Elise said. "Thanks for being interested," Boris said. "How could I not be? After reading some of the stuff that was sent in, I immediately knew I had to meet you," Elise said, cupping her hands on the desk and leaning forward, smirking as she asked, "have you been writing poetry for a long time?" "Very," Boris said, "I started doing it to court my wife, and then I did it to help my daughter fall asleep. Eventually I gave up because I had to get a paying job and nobody was interested in poetry, so I just...put it on the backburner and only wrote a few pieces in private here and there over the years, often to satiate my own emotions." "Well, nobody may have been interested then, but we are now," Dennis said. "Boris, can you just tell me...why do you write poetry over general fiction or even genre fiction? What is it about poetry that pulls you in?" Elise asked. "I guess," Boris said, crossing his legs and thinking, tapping his nails on the arm of the chair, "...I guess because it's harder to convey exactly what you mean in a medium that's reserved for dialogue and plot. Poetry is pure form, pure feeling. It's the closest thing we have to expression of the soul verbally. People talk a lot of shit about purple prose in writing but that's almost all poetry is sometimes, and it's all the better for it." "You really know your stuff, I'm impressed," Dennis said. Boris smirked at this, nodded in his direction, then continued saying, "and I suppose it also was a way for me to work out my internalized issues about myself, my life, my family at the time. It was helpful. Sure, I wrote things for my wife and daughter, like I said, but I also wrote those things for myself. It was like writing it made it real. Like...like feeling it wasn't enough, and I had to somehow bring it into the world another way." "...interesting," Elise said, "Well obviously we're interested. We run a slew of magazines here, but I overhead the literary magazine called Scope, and I'd love to have you write a few pieces and see how it works out, if you're interested, of course." Boris chewed his lip and thought for a moment, then straightened up and, pulling his hat off, rubbed his balding head. "I just have one request," he said, "if I do this. I don't want to be paid for the pieces. I want what I would get compensation wise to be sent to charities for disabled and terminally ill children. That's my only stipulation." "That sounds fair, if you really wanna do that," Elise said. "Besides, who knows, maybe we'll find another way to pay you anyway," Dennis chimed in. "That's admirable, but not entirely necessary," Boris said, as he and Father Krickett started to stand up, ready to exit; as he tossed his scarf around his neck, Boris added, "you know, I always wondered what it'd be like to be a professional writer. I always wondered if I'd feel any different than I did beforehand. Turns out it changes nothing except your expectation for failure to be publicly visible." And with that, he smiled and exited the room, Father Krickett on his heels, leaving Elise and Dennis sitting there, utterly dumbfounded. Dennis finally stood up, scratched the back of his head and shut the office door before turning on his heel and looking back at Elise. "What a weird old man," Dennis said. "I love him," Elise said, grinning from ear to ear. *** Sitting in the diner after their meeting - Boris having ordered a stack of waffles even though it was well after lunch now and John having ordered a lambchop - the men were both uncertain of how to feel about what had just transpired. Boris felt like he should thank Father Krickett, after all, it was his persistence that got Boris the offer, but Boris also felt slightly irritated that he hadn't simply left well enough alone. Now he had expectations to let down, and that made him all the more nervous. Last thing an old man needs is higher blood pressure, he thought to himself. "So," Father Krickett asked while cutting into his slab of meat, "any idea on what you'll be submitting first?" "Yeah, a piece entitled 'People Should Mind Their Own Business'," Boris said snidely, "based on actual recent feelings." "I deserve that I guess," Father Krickett said, chuckling as he lifted a piece of meat into his mouth and chewed, pointing his fork at Boris, "but I just hate to see you squander potential while you've still got it. When we first met, you said you felt like you weren't doing enough with your old age, that you didn't want to just die and have the last part of your life read like a todo list. Woke up. Got dressed. Read the newspaper. You said you wanted to do things with the time you had left, be someone better." "I did say those things, but when the chips are down, and the moment comes, it can quickly remind you how terrifying it is to try and attain a legacy that will outlive you. I caused a lot of pain and grief to people, albeit not purposefully, and I'm scared that what I write will only hurt people further." "It's not like you write cruel things. If anything, it'll help. I mean, think about how many people, even years from now once we're both dead and buried, might come across your work and think 'finally, someone who gets how I feel!'. They'll be appreciative that you took a stand however many years prior to make your feelings known, so that they could feel known later on." Boris thought about this for a bit, then nodded. "Fair enough," he finally replied, pouring more syrup onto his waffles and cutting into them, adding, "but that doesn't make it any less frightening or daunting a task to undergo. Creativity isn't like a faucet you can just turn on and off, I've gotta be in the right frame of mind, the right emotional place. That's why deadlines and I never worked out." "Be good enough for the publisher to fight to keep you onboard and you can forego any deadlines," Father Krickett said, "Let me tell you a story. When I first started preaching, like seriously preaching in this church here, I was told that we do things by the book. A strict set of rules. Here's how we word things, here's words we avoid using, here's phrasing that people expect to hear, and if you didn't follow these rules, then you were considered an unreliable asset. A dangerous asset, even. But the thing is, because I went around those, preached my own way, and as a result got a lot of people coming to sermons because of the way I preached, the church couldn't outright fire me. I was bringing them people! I was worth something. How I preached was worth bending their precious little rules. People like other people who don't play by the rules, especially if they're doing it for good reasons and not selfish ones." Boris leaned back and chewed his waffle bite, then swallowed. He looked around the diner and thought about how he hadn't been writing well lately, how he hadn't felt very good about his work these days, and how he'd love to change that. Perhaps now this was the chance to do so. "Well," he finally said, "can't make my life any worse, can it? Just seems unsettling, like it's a challenge. Good things never happen to me, because when they do, they're followed by even worse things, so it's almost as if the universe is daring me to accept this. And I'm gonna, cause at this point, what more could the universe do that it hasn't already done?" "That's the spirit," Father Krickett said, as they clinked their glasses together. *** Ellen was laying in her hospital bed the following day when the door opened and Boris entered. She put down her book and looked at him, somewhat surprised and somewhat confused. He pulled a chair around and seated himself beside the bed. "Dad? What are you doing here? I don't have any therapy today, and you didn't say you were gonna come visit, so-" "Do you remember when you were a little girl and I used to read you poetry?" he asked, and she smiled. "Yeah, I do remember that, actually. Not very well, but faintly," she replied. "Then let's make some new memories too," Boris said, pulling out his journal and turning to a certain page, "I recently got an offer to do some poetry for a literary magazine and I'm trying to work on some stuff. For a long time I thought that perhaps the way I viewed the world was what was wrong with my writing, and it turns out I was right. I shouldn't say how I see the world. I should say how I wanna see the world. What I want the world to be." Ellen smiled warmly, and reached out, holding his hand. "By the way, all the money is going to disabled or terminally ill children, so I'm not even doing this for financial compensation." Ellen felt like she wanted to cry. She was still, admittedly, having trouble remembering who her father had been, but the man she was looking at she was becoming proud to call her dad now. "I hope you like this, I wrote it a few weeks ago," he said, "It's gonna be my first submission for publication next month. It's called 'Polly'." |
About
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
|