The End

**This story suggests physician assisted suicide and may trigger others who have dealt with these types of scenarios or death. **

It is two hours, forty-minutes, and twenty seconds since the physician has left and Tilly has made her decision. She has placed the box with the artifacts on the kitchen counter and found the letter marked, “For Tilly only.” It is still sealed, and she is grateful Fletcher’s curiosity didn’t get the best of him. She pours Fletcher a cup of earl grey tea and places it on the other side of the kitchen counter before she calls for him.

Fletcher rolls across the laminated kitchen floor with a “wee” before his abrupt stop. “Did you see that counter? It almost took me out.” He chuckles before his bony hands reach for the teacup. “Thanks for the tea,” he lifts it to his mouth stopping to look up at Tilly, “time for a talk then?”

“Yes, I’m ready to talk, Fletcher.” Tilly says as she rises from her chair. “You stay here.”

Tilly moves to the dining room and readies her finger over number twenty-five of the jukebox. She always hesitates when a big discussion is to ensue. Always doubting if what she has decided is the right path. But she pushes the button and Patsy Cline’s Crazy floats along the air.

She thinks she just might be crazy, too. Because in this moment she loves Fletcher so much that she is ready to accept his request to die. Tilly sways back to the kitchen, letting the rhythm and words wash over like she did as a teenager, remembering Fletcher’s kindness and compassion holding her the day of her mother’s funeral and how she wants to emulate that for Fletcher. She enters the kitchen, takes the envelope and places it down next to his saucer.

“One of my favorites. Shall we.” Fletcher straightens his posture and reaches his hand for Tilly’s. “One more dance.” His wiry eyebrow quirks up and his eyes crinkle from his smile.

Tilly takes his hand in hers and gathers her strength to hold him up, as he has done so many times in her life.

“I remember the first time I heard this song.” Fletcher says, pulling Tilly closer to his chest. “The long, mewling notes bellowed from your bedroom window days after the last time I saw you.”

Tilly drops her head, “and I had no idea you were there. . .”

Fletcher releases her hand and tugs her chin. “No gloom. You wouldn’t have known. I didn’t have all my Buford wits about me anyhow with those musical notes and Ms. Patsy Cline’s transfixing voice setting my feet right where they were. It was just how our story was supposed to be.”

“I really didn’t have any idea. So lost in my thoughts and grief. . . The following day we left Georgia. I thought it was the end.”

“You know, I made ma buy the record ‘cause I just knew you were singing to me and I wanted to feel you close any how I could. You were meant for me.” He winks with his good eye.

Tilly steps back from Fletcher. “I remember the day I sent the last letter from South Peach. You needed to know that I was not abandoning you like your father or leaving like your grandpa did. But it was returned to sender. . .”

“Fate had other plans, did she not?”

Tilly looks into Fletcher’s pale blue eyes. “And here we are – fifty years later.”

Fletcher caresses Tilly’s hair. “Here we are.” He whispers as he plants a soft, and gentle kiss on her forehead.

She palms Fletcher’s cheek. “The song is closing in on the end. There is a piece of paper on the table that I want you to read.” She maneuvers around him and hands the paper to Fletcher who has taken a seat.  

Fletcher’s face scrunches up, crinkling his cheeks. He takes the note in hand and studies the front, then the back. Confusion wrinkles his forehead, “there is no writing?”  

“Just open it.” Tilly demands. Her back is straight, and ankles are crossed. Her soft and delicate hands rest on the checkered blue skirt she wears. A sigh escapes her chest. “Sometimes, there feels like there is no relief in doing what is right.”

Fletcher is intrigued. He opens the paper, his diseased eye half shut like he is afraid to see the words. But there they are, faded from time, whispering back to him, “I owe you,” in his twelve-year-old handwriting. “What, how?”

“It was the last written thing you left at my house. I wasn’t going to get rid of it. Father read the note and complained how rural farm boys didn’t have time or money to be fixing the siding of his house. Ruined is what he said and continued on babbling about how it would cost more than ‘that boy’s entire life savings.’ I watched him throw the paper in the tin can and when he left the room, I zoomed in there and snatched it from the trash. Fletcher C. Buford certainly was a poor boy when it came to money, but no amount of gold could touch his sentiment and honorable intentions. Daddy couldn’t see that.” Tilly gets up from her seat, comes around the counter, and kneels before Fletcher.

She takes her hands and places them in his and inhales a long deep breath. “Fletcher, you taught me to love, to hope, to believe, even in the worst of times. I owe you the compassion and kindness you have shown throughout your life with me and to me. I owe you the empathy and understanding you gave to our daughter when you told the doctor to let her go.”

Fletcher wipes the tear from Tilly’s face. He would rather see her rejoice and celebrate his departure as he has lived a full, and happy life. “You don’t owe me anything, I’ve already gotten everything I need from you.”

Tilly shakes her head. “Fletcher, my love had limits and I can see that now.  I will hold you in my arms until your last breath and sing “Crazy” in your ears until you tell me to stop and whisper kisses along your face and hands until you can no longer feel me. I will hold you until your death. I understand now.”

***

“I’d like a good juicy steak for my last meal.”

“You aren’t on death row, Fletcher.” Tilly glances over her shoulder. She stands at the kitchen sink, her apron over the skirt and blouse she has chosen for Fletcher’s final day of existence. The slippers he bought her for Christmas are snug on her tiny feet.  Everything appears normal even though tomorrow Fletcher will take his last breath.

There is comfort in knowing this, he thinks.

Tilly starts to hum Crazy as she dries the lunch dishes. Next to the sink is a large pitcher of homemade iced tea. She has let it sit all afternoon in the summer sun, it is one of Fletcher’s favorites. The warm sweetness already tingles along his tastebuds, and he thinks it may be better than steak.

“I’ll order from Gerald’s then.”

“No fuss though. Don’t go tellin’ ‘em it’s my last meal and all. They can grieve at my funeral and not a minute before.” Fletcher salutes Tilly and does an about face as best he can with the walker having better grippers than a suction cup with crazy glue. “I’ll be on the front porch awaiting that delicious tea of yours.” On his way out, he grabs the Buford Bible, stories and legends of all the Buford’s lives in one book. Stories that teach about morals and life, rights and wrongs, living and being. But none, not one, about death. He grabs a sheet of paper along with the Buford Bible. It isn’t his entry to make but he’d leave an impression for his niece, Mikayla, to write the entry.

Outside, the air holds still in the humid evening. Its warmth wraps around him and tucks him into the nostalgia of summer days, picnics by the lake with his Ma and Mr. Joe, picking strawberries and husking corn. Crazy Grandpa’s stories and adventures swell his brain with laughter and fondness. His heart wells full and free as he stands at the edge of the top steps.

The horizon used to seem so fat and unattainable. The curiosity when he was a child creating a story that carried beyond the pinks and oranges painted by summer’s brush. A far stretch of what-ifs and impossibilities, until he met Tilly. Then the horizon became his road to her. No matter how far beyond she went from where he stood, he knew she existed there. And now, his existence will far surpass the vibrant sunset colors and radiant horizon lines.

He will be free. Still, he finds the melancholy creeping into his thoughts. Tilly will be alone. For whatever time she has here, she will be without Fletcher.

He makes his way to the rocking chair closest to the steps and sets the paper down on the wicker table. Buford Bible in hand, he takes his seat.

Fletcher rubs the front cover, feeling the supple softness of leather under his touch. Generations of Buford wisdom tucked inside. The crackle binding, and worn-out edges of the papers are a sign of all the Buford’s use and application. He opens the book and finds one of several empty pages, he begins to write his final entry:

Plants die. Electronics die. Pets die. Humans die. There is nothing wrong with dying. We should have lived our existence with Grandpa’s cynicism and sense of adventure, grandma’s strength and purpose, Ma’s soft heart and love, Tilly’s compassion and unwavering devotion to me, and my dearest Lily’s curiosity and assuredness . . . No regrets for then we can come to our end with peace and contentment. 

Everything dies anyways. Fletcher C. Buford

“Here we are.” Tilly emerges from the house with the iced tea pitcher and two tumbler glasses and to his delight, the canteen of their good scotch. She pours him a glass of tea and a shot of scotch and does the same for herself before she pulls her rocking chair next to his. “A little bit of me and a little bit of you because that’s how it always has been and always will be.” She sits and takes Fletcher’s hand. Her thumb makes small circles on his skin. A comfort washes over his old bones and muscles and he realizes he has been waiting for this moment. The tension slowly eases from each molecule of his sick body.  

He rocks in sync with his Tilly. No regrets – he has lived a good life, has a woman who loves him, friends and success, family. The sweet, iced tea is cooler on his fingertips and smooth across his tastebuds.

This is the last sweet tea I’ll drink.

The last sunset I’ll see.

The last time I’ll feel Tilly’s warmth or hear her steady voice.

He bends forward, inching closer to Tilly. “My body will soon be nothing but flesh and bones but never forget my spirit soars above. I was always fixed on being more than Fletcher C. Buford living at 1313 Deer Run Lane, and thanks to you, I’ve been so much more.”

Tilly shimmies closer to Fletcher. She takes his iced tea glass and puts it on the whicker table. Her hands embrace the bony cheeks, and she rubs the tear from his good eye. “Fletcher C. Buford, I will always remember you.”

They kiss. One final goodbye filled with all the memories of their life together, the support each had for one another, and carry the kiss through the whimsical destiny of Tilly and Fletcher, soul mates and best friends. Lovers.

The End.