Jack Everson buttoned up his thirty-year-old suit jacket and slowly made his way up to the front of the church. Reaching the pulpit, he straightened his tie before turning to face the funeral congregation. Every seat appeared to be taken. Which, in its own way, surprised him. He cleared his throat and leaned in towards the microphone.
‘I’m sure you’re expecting me to tell you that Paul was a good man, maybe even a great man. To hear some stories from his life. Memories from our school days together, perhaps. But I’m afraid I can’t do any of that. The truth is I hardly knew Paul at all. In fact, I rarely saw him around the estate and even when I did, we seldom spoke for any real length of time. As many of you know, Paul was an intensely private man who seemed to prefer his own company to others’. This being the case then, I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m standing up here today.’
As Jack surveyed the room, half a dozen heads nodded faintly.
‘A few weeks ago, Paul asked me over to his house. As you might imagine, I was a little surprised by the invite. In any event, I accepted. It was late afternoon when I arrived. We sat out on his porch and enjoyed a few drinks. Watched the sun go down over that enormous loquat tree of his. He was surprisingly talkative and, after a while, asked if I would perhaps consider doing something important for him. A favour. Before I could ask what it was, he announced that he was dying. Just like that. Like he was telling me the time. He didn’t share the details of his illness, only that the battle was lost.’
Jack looked up and caught sight of his three friends sitting together near the back of the church – Samuel, Elizabeth and Rosie. His gaze remained fixed on them as he continued.
‘It turns out that Paul had heard about my plans to leave the estate next month and wanted to know why I was going. I won’t trouble you with the details, but my answer appeared to strike a chord of some sort. He then asked if I’d be willing to stand up for him here today. You see, this isn’t a eulogy. Paul wanted me to read out a letter he had written.’
With that, Jack reached into his pocket and withdrew two neatly folded pages. He then fished out his glasses and slipped them on.
‘My name is Paul James Edwards. Like most of us here, I was fortunate enough to live a life in which I managed to accumulate a certain amount of wealth. Enough, at least, to allow me the privilege of living in a place like this. There’s no question that in almost every respect, Stone Well Estate is an Eden for people who have worked hard and now wish to live out the remainder of their lives in peace and comfort. If not downright luxury. For those of you who don’t know, I came out here many years ago following the death of my wife. The truth is her passing hit me harder than seemed possible. So hard, in fact, that I was convinced I would follow after her in no time at all. The way I saw it, there was simply no way I could carry on without her. Writing these words now, I realise how feeble that makes me sound. Like an old and sentimental fool. But it’s still the truth. And I figure it’s too late in the day to start lying now.
‘And so I waited to die. But the days soon blurred into weeks. And the weeks came and went like autumn leaves being swept away by the wind. One Christmas became another. And then another. For eighteen long years I waited. When I finally fell ill a few months ago and discovered the nature of my diagnosis, I felt only one thing: Relief. My long wait was finally over. You see, the thing is, I stopped living the day I came here. I made this place my prison.
‘Of course, I know what some of you are thinking. How can a retirement estate as beautiful as this one ever be considered a jail? But others among you will know what I mean. Trust me when I tell you that prisons can be made out of just about anything. Even a designer golf course, as it turns out. It was only once I started to get really sick that I began to see things differently. I started to notice things that hadn’t occurred to me before. When I was young, retirement estates – or retirement homes, as they were more commonly called – were reserved for the authentically elderly. For the frail and lonely. Folk who, for the most part, had become surplus to either their family or society’s requirements and could no longer care for themselves. But looking around at the people of Stone Well, a very different picture became clear to me. So much so that I began to question what I was seeing. I even decided to do a little research. Do you know that the average age of folk in our estate is sixty-three? The waiting list – and I know because
I’ve seen it – has people listed in their late forties. A few weeks ago my condition forced me into our frail-care unit for an evening. The nurse told me that I was her tenth patient. I was a little confused by her statement, so I asked her to clarify. Was I her tenth patient of the day? The week? No. It turns out she had been working in the unit for four months already and I was only the tenth patient she had ever seen.
‘So what, I’m sure you’re wondering, is my point? Well, firstly I’d like you to know how sorry I am for never really participating here. For not taking the time to get to know more of you. It’s no excuse, but you see, I was always waiting to leave. One doesn’t bother making friends at a train station. Of course, now that it’s too late to do anything about it, I realise how wrong I was and what a waste I have made of my time here. I’d like to believe that I’m a better person than the one you barely knew. That the quiet man you
saw sitting in his garden day after day was just a poor facsimile of someone who once had a great deal more to offer the world. But I guess you’ll have to take me at my word on that.’
Jack turned to the second page. The church was so silent now he could hear his fingers sliding on the paper.
‘So why have I written this letter? Well, now that I’ve finally lifted my head, I can see that some of you aren’t so different to me. Maybe you think you’re hiding it well, but I see you. After all, I know the signs well enough. You’re waiting, just like I’ve been. Maybe not for the reasons that I was, but some of you have stopped living. There’s no question about it. And I’m asking you not to make the same mistake that I did. Sixty-three – hell, eighty-three – is too young to be waiting for the clock to stop if you still have
health on your side. I can’t tell you how much I regret these past years. It burns me so badly now that I can barely sleep any more.
‘Of course, maybe you’re genuinely happy here. Maybe you enjoy your daily routines and have made close friends. Perhaps you have peace in your life. If that’s the case, I’m pleased for you and I wish you well. But, if you’re anything like me and you’ve come here for the wrong reasons, then I urge you to do something about it. If you’re living with regrets – with things that you’ve put away in a box but that maybe keep you awake at night – I want to tell you that you still have time enough to make things right. I was given eighteen years – it’s a damn lifetime – and I spent most of those days staring up at the sky. I can only imagine how it must have broken my wife’s heart to see me out on that porch, just waiting.’
Jack held up the page and moved on to the last two paragraphs.
‘Thank you, Jack, for agreeing to do this for me. I was so pleased to learn of your upcoming trip. I sense you have some unfinished business of your own. I hope and pray that you find the peace you’re searching for, if that’s what your journey’s about. I also really enjoyed our brief time together and, of course, I’m sorry that we never spoke more or shared a drink occasionally. I have a feeling that I missed out on a friendship that could’ve really meant something. Just one more thing to add to my list of regrets.’
Jack swallowed and was surprised by a sudden surge of emotion that tugged at his voice.
‘I know that life isn’t a storybook. I also know that some of our mistakes are too far gone to be hauled back in. That maybe you’ve lost things that will remain beyond your grasp. But I also know that my life would’ve been so much better spent if I had just been trying for something. And that, really, is the point of this letter. My final wish for all of you is that you realise, while you still have time, that it’s the trying that matters. Maybe it’s all that matters.’
Jack stared at the last line and then removed his glasses.
‘Here’s to life. And here’s to you. Thank you for listening.’
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