We Made It
A molten lake of fire. The very image of hell to most, but not to Harold. While most people dreamed of clouds and angels, bright light and posthumous family reunions, all Harold wanted was to burn; to dissolve into nothing. No more aching joints or shaking hips, no more troublesome cough or faulty memory. No more sagging skin or liver spots. Just burn it all please, he would think. And this morning seemed to finally be the day. His lovely wife Helen had dreamed years ago that there would come a day when the sun would seem not to rise. On this black day, they would set adrift at sea in their special coffin built for two, to be reclaimed by whatever bizarre creature that had given them life these seventy some odd years ago. Harold had been nearly desperate to do this every day, but as usual, he trusted Helen's insight and forbearance completely. She had never been wrong about important things in all their 54 years of marriage. And besides, seeing her face, touching her hand, and holding her close was every bit as important as their date with oblivion.
So when he awoke on that late June morning, the darkness did not alarm him, even though his clock claimed it to be nearly 8am. Helen was already up, of course, most likely having tea at her favorite lookout spot at the very top of the lighthouse that had been their home for the last 40 years. He creaked and groaned out of bed, grabbed the piece of wood that he required to be ambulatory, and headed for the washroom. He would wash up, put on his sunday finest, and go meet his beloved at the tower top for the last time. He smiled to himself, showing his old, wooden teeth. Even in sharing the world with his favorite person, life had become tiresome, and now today was the day they could finally drift away.
Even relieving himself was painful at his age, but this morning he did so with aplomb, from there hopping into one of those laughable senior citizen idiot-proof bathtubs; today though, he washed without the bitterness and shame he normally felt, shined himself clean as a whistle. Yessiree. Combing the tattered remnants of his hair, applying some cologne, and dressing in his finest brown pinstripe 3 piece suit was a laborious and awkward hour. Normally, Helen would help him, but she would know very well that he would want no help on this very special day. Their last day on earth. He finally straightened his tie, and looked himself over in the mirror. Age just seems to sneak up on you, he thought as his looked into his eyes, the same eyes of the unruly teenager he used to be, but now surrounded by old and shapeless sagging skin, and a weak and wasted frame. So strange, the mirror did not reflect how he felt, it showed him someone he refused to recognize. his grabbed up his cane again, and headed to the lift that would take him to the top of the lighthouse. The lift that would take him to Helen. He waited impatiently as it rose slowly up toward the top, and he was reminded of their wedding day, when he waited at the altar for what had seemed eternity, but was really only an hour or so. She was so beautiful on that day, in her grandmother's white dress, with fresh flowers in her hand. It was one of the happiest days of his life. He stepped slowly out of the lift, cane clumping on the the towertop floor, and thought he had stepped back in time as he saw her. She was wearing the dress, carefully preserved all these years, and as she turned from the railing overlooking the sea, she seemed the same vibrant eighteen year old girl he had said I do to all those years ago. He always thought of her so, and was continually surprised to note her grey hair and wrinkles. She set her tea down carefully, and picked up a bouquet of fresh lilies as she walked over to meet him. No infernal cane for her. She had always been the stronger of the two, even though he had hauled the nets and won the bread for them all this time.
"Harold, my light."
"Helen, my love."
"It's time."
"Yes, we've finally made it."
Her right hand clasped his left and they walked to the railing together, to share their favorite spot for the last time. Looking out over the angry sea, cloaked in unnatural darkness and battered to white foam on the rocky shore, they felt love in their hearts and relief in their minds. Somewhere out their, on the deceptively calm horizon, they would this day vanish into infinity. Together.
"Ready?"
"Ever and always, for you, Helen. I am ready."
Without another word, they made their way back down in the lift and then slowly and painfully (for Harold at least) out to their dock. They pulled the tarp off of the special floating coffin he had built what seemed like ages ago, when they had first conceived this plan. Neither one of them had wanted to waste away in a hospital or a nursing home, so they had decided to meet their maker in their own way, Helen's insightful dreams instructing them in the timing and the manner. The coffin was lined with soft velvet, and sized to accommodate the two of them quite comfortably. They had tried it out years ago when Harold built it, and he had been tempted to stay there and rot, but Helen had chided him gently, saying it was not the time. She had been right, of course, as she usually was.
Now they lay down in the coffin again, and pushed off gently into the sea, the tide seeming to flow backwards to help them on their way. They held hands and drifted, farther and farther away from the shore and their lighthouse home, until nothing was visible but the black sky and the the equally black sea.
"Harold, do you ever regret staying with me even though I was unable to produce children for you?"
"Not for a second my dear. The little buggers would have just gotten in our way, and if we had told them about this, they would have stuck us in a home, to rot with all the other oldies." The seaspray misted their faces lightly, and the waves rocked them gently in their coffin built for two.
"Thank you Harold."
"No, thank you Helen. You made my life worth living."
And with that, they let their minds wander, and the last thing Harold could remember was the soft mist on his face, and the warmth of Helen's hand in his.
