12
Griff
I carefully remove the ziplock bag of pills from the urn and dust off the bit of Beau that clings to it. “Sorry, handsome,”
I whisper, hoping it’s just a bit of toe or eyebrow and not his gallbladder.
If I do meet the man upstairs today, I’ll be asking him why he took Beau so prematurely. How he could look at Beau—kind, brilliant
Beau—and think the world didn’t need more of him. That I didn’t need more of him.
Being late was one of the few things that really stressed Beau out. He insisted on being early and was forever rushing us
out the door, a habit that drove me mad. We were the first to arrive at parties, making awkward small talk with the host while
they finished scooping out dip onto platters. And of course there was the airport. I was happy to arrive the recommended three
hours before an international departure. But with him, we had to be there six hours ahead. Overseas flights are long enough
without spending half the day sitting on hard plastic chairs, consuming crappy coffee and too many Krispy Kreme doughnuts.
In the end, like in life, he was early for death, too.
Fountain pen in hand, I find a sheet of paper and begin to write. Not a suicide note, not really, but a final letter to Beau.
The things I never said, the truths I buried too deep. A tear splashes onto the page, blurring the ink, a testament to the
battles fought within these four walls.
Folding the pages carefully, I slide them into the hollow of his broken viola, where no one will find them. The wood is cool beneath my fingers, still holding the scent of rosin and time. My thumb finds the fine crack at the back of the neck as I rest it gently on the shelf, sealed and silent.
I grab the bottle of thirty-year-old Glenfiddich single malt whisky from my cupboard. Given its age, we’d thought it fitting
to save it for our thirtieth wedding anniversary, but he was gone before we ever made it that far. Along with a few other
contraband items, I smuggled it in here under the radar. I ease it from its unusual yet ingenious hiding spot. Not Winnie-the-Pooh
this time; he is already stuffed with toilet rolls. This teddy had his “surgery” shortly before I moved in. I did to the bear
what I’d done to myself—made it empty on the inside, then filled the gap with booze. Better to have that in you than cottonwool, Humphrey, old mate.
I take out the bottle, and the bear collapses like an ill-timed sponge cake. But something else comes with it: my will and
a folded newspaper article. My name stares back at me in bold black type.
Renowned Melbourne Chef Diagnosed with Dementia
I smooth the paper out. The piece goes on about my legacy, the accolades, the quiet retreat from public life.
Griffith Barlow, once the heart of Lorraine, now living with Alzheimer’s.
No mention of the food poisoning in this one. No mention of why I really left.
I trace a thumb over my grainy image. That man was noble. Dignified. Done for, but done well. And that’s the best way to keep
it.
I put the article back but place my will in the top drawer, easy to find. Back when I was still lucid, I updated it: no funeral,
no fuss. I didn’t want to burden Lisa with any of it.
I put a fistful of round white tablets into my mouth and bring the Scotch to my lips. “See you soon, mate.”
Beau watches me from the wall with that smile. I tell myself it’ll be the last time I see it in this life. The second I close
my eyes, I’m right back at the beginning, to the moment it changed everything.