Never Too Late

• Michelle Bulin, Grade 8
• Short Story
• 2017

The musty pale yellow ceiling of her room stared back at her as she lay in her bed in a state of blank contemplation. “You know,” Fran whispered, “I’ve always wanted to a lounge singer.” Janice giggled from her bed by the opposite wall. “Oh Fran, you know it’s too late. We’re in a retirement home for a reason.” Then it hit her like a semi-trailer whose driver had fallen asleep. She sat up straight in her bed. “Fran! It’s seven o’clock! Get back in bed!” Fran’s world was suddenly quiet but buzzing with cobalt electricity.
White blouse, cerulean cardigan, a lovely paisley skirt. Fran paired her best outfit with her prized pearl necklace. Slinging her purse over her shoulder, she sashayed out the door.
For a seventy-eight-year-old woman, Fran was certainly agile. She had aced all her senior fitness tests and was top of her water ballet class. Slinking through the dark corridors was an easy feat, ducking beneath the reception desk and shuffling through the staff door. Sunshine Hills Retirement Community was behind Fran Harris and she was ready to take on the world.
Her turquoise flats click-clacked on the pavement and her silver curls bounced as she strutted down Bourbon Street. The eight o’clock sky was the most beautiful watercolour painting you could ever lay eyes on – turning, twisting billows of indigo, lapis, azure, and onyx black. A creamy spectrum of blues, blacks and purples, embellished with dazzling stars. She powered towards the Maison Bourbon Jazz Club, her fist clenched in excitement. Years of practise had come down to this.
The bottle green doors flew open in warm welcome to Fran as she strode confidently into the brick building. The euphonious sound of trumpets was sweet, sticky honey to her ears as she clicked her fingers to the infectious beat. She switched on her charm as she chatted to the manager. Five minutes until the next open slot on the setlist. Fran flashed a toothy smile.
Soon enough Fran was ready to perform. As the music began, Fran’s eyes closed and she swung her arm to the sonorous tune of the trombone. Dulcet tones poured out of Fran’s smile, intertwining with the music. It was delicate threads of silk being woven into a fine dress. It was pouring milk into a steaming cup of tea. It was the greatest moment of Fran’s life.
As she continued to sing, she felt the fizzle of youth coursing through her veins. Her hands were wrinkled as she clutched the microphone but she was the youngest soul in the room. The room was abuzz as Fran belted out the last few choruses of her song. After her stellar performance, she became a regular – the best of the Tuesday night setlist.
As she lay in bed that night, Fran recounted the night countless times to Janice in vivid detail. “Don’t ever tell me it’s too late to follow my dreams.” Vivacious rhythms of silky saxophone rocked Fran into an Aegean blue dream.