This is my fourth submission in this particular area of Literotica, and is quite different from many of my other stories.
I would like to thank those who have offered comments and constructive criticism on my previous stories, and those who have patiently waited for this addition to the story.
And now, the disclaimers:
For those who want to say this or that would never happen, remember this is my universe, a place where nearly anything can, and often does, happen. At least on paper... In addition:
Characters in this story may participate in one or more of the following: Smoking, consumption of adult (meaning, alcoholic) beverages, utterance of profanities.
All sexual activity is between consenting adults 18 years of age or older.
Statements or views uttered by the fictional characters in this story do not necessarily reflect the views or opinions of the author.
Please refer to my profile for more on my personal policy regarding comments, feedback, follows, etc. (Yes, I DO moderate comments) And please remember, this is a work of fiction, not a docu-drama...
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September 2073:
I hate funerals. Always have and always will. This funeral, though, is the absolute worse. Hopefully, it will be the last funeral I ever attend next to my own. The reason is simple. The woman in the casket being laid into the ground is -- or was -- the love of my life.
Her name was Jennifer Conrad, but she went by Jenny. She was my best friend, my loyal confidant, the woman who made life worth living. She was also my twin sister. Me? I'm Gerald Conrad, but everyone calls me Jerry or Jer.
I shed hot tears as her casket was lowered. A part of me wished I could trade places with her. After all, I thought, she deserved to live far more than I. Don't get me wrong -- this was expected, and both of us knew this would happen sooner rather than later. Still, it hurt like hell to witness it, knowing the rest of my life would be empty. No more laughter. No more smiles. No more kisses. No more... anything.
For the last year or so, she had fought off one malady after another. I guess that happens when you get to be our age. The final straw was the day she was diagnosed with a rare form of pancreatic cancer. The doctors all told us there was no cure -- nothing to do but wait and try to stave off the pain. So they put her into a hospice, and that, as they say, was that.
I spent every waking moment in her room. I read to her, held her hand, watched television with her, cuddled up in bed with her. I generally did my best to make her final days as happy and comfortable as humanly possible. Even though she was in pain the whole time, she never complained.
The service was lovely, and everyone offered their condolences as they left. Exhausted, I sat down on a nearby bench, and pastor Bob sat down next to me after everyone had left.
"I hate funerals," he said quietly. I looked at him, surprised.
"I was thinking the same thing myself," I told him. He chuckled at that.
"You know, when you go to school to be a pastor, they teach you all these fancy things to say at times like these. To tell you the truth, I don't think there's anything anyone can say to ease the pain of a lost loved one," he said. "Sometimes, I think it's better to just say nothing."
"I think you're right," I said quietly.
"You two were together a long time," he said. "What, 50 years?"
"Fifty-two years, four months, 17 days," I said. "But who's counting?"
"That's six years longer than I've been alive," he said. "You and your sister must've really loved each other to stay together that long." I looked at him, surprised that he knew. As far as most everyone in the church knew, we were married. No one ever asked, and we never said otherwise.
"You knew?" I asked. He nodded his head.
"Yeah," he said. "I saw the way you two interacted. I saw the love, respect, and devotion the two of you had for each other. Figured it wasn't my place to judge. You were both happy, so who was I to say anything." That was one of the reasons Jenny and I started going to this church 20 years ago. We had heard the people there were very friendly, open-minded, and non-judgmental.
"You going to be okay?" Bob asked after a few silent moments. I shook my head.
"I don't think I'll ever be okay again," I said.
"You loved her with all your heart," he said. "That's normal. Just know that we all loved Jenny. And we all love you as well. If you need anything -- anything at all -- even if it's just sweeping the floor -- you call me. Got it?" I nodded my head. He handed me a card.
"What's this?" I asked.
"It's a group that gets together a couple times a month at the church. Widows, widowers, others who have lost loved ones. A good chance to grieve with others," he said. "They get together, have a small meal, socialize, reminisce. Cry on each other's shoulders. That sort of thing. Better than moping around the house by yourself all the time."
"Thanks, I'll consider it," I said.
"Do that," he said. "And yes, whether you want to believe it or not, you'll be okay. C'mon, let me walk you to your car." I got up, and he walked with me to my car, a 1975 Trans Am I had restored several years before.
It was white with a sky-blue interior and sported a 400 cubic inch engine. It was a rare find these days, what with everyone driving electric or hybrid cars. I didn't take it out often, but there were times I just felt the need to open her up and let the wind whip through what was left of my hair. Jenny bought it for me as a present over 30 years ago. At the time, it needed a lot of work, but I enjoyed putting it back together. I'll never forget the first time she rode in it with me. But that's another story for another time.
