Afraid of Living

Morrie’s mood about his money woes wasn’t helped by his friend’s outlandish schemes

- ANTONINO R SCALABRINO

WE CALLED ourselves the Lighthouse Runners. Every Sunday morning, 6 am sharp, we’d meet at the lighthouse and run to the pavilion and back.

I should qualify the term “run”.

Ten years ago one could describe our passage as a rather slow run. Five years ago an apt description would be a slow jog and now it would be called a fast walk. Time dictates. The important objective was to cover the distance, all five kilometres.

There were five of us. Joe age 73, Harold age 78, Boris age 82, Bennie age 85, and myself, Morrie, age 88.

Alas, our numbers have dwindled. Joe kicked the bucket in January, Boris gave up the ghost in April and Harold passed on a week ago.

Now we’re only two and one wonders whether the rest of us will be pushing up daisies by the end of the year.

Bennie was late. Bennie is always late but never more than five minutes late . . . Which means he was on time, Bennie’s time. He also had a lot to say. Bennie always had a lot to say.

“I did not know that Harold had so many friends.”

“Yes.”

“He had such a big funeral.”

“He was a man of influence.”

“He was here last Sunday . . . brimming with health . . . and now he’s gone . . . I can’t believe it.”

“Embolism.”

“He just dropped dead. Just like that. I can’t believe it.”

“You going to talk or are we going to run?”