THANKS FOR THE MEMORIES

The tires crunched against the snow as the car came to a stop beside the curb. As usual, the high-pitched grinding noise made me shudder and hurt my ears like a son of a bitch. I've had this car for 25 years, and wish I had a dollar for every time I've had to hear that, not to mention every time I've had to take this car in for a tune-up. True, I could've just sold it for scrap, and you'd be right in telling me I should've. The thing is, I was never able to bring myself to do so.

You see, this car was Finn's.

Actually, let me rephrase that—this particular car wasn't Finn's. It was however, the same color and model: a royal blue 1992 Chevy Lumina, just like the one he'd had.

Finn was a great guy, and a great friend as well. For as long as I'd known him, the one thing I could always expect was to see him arrive in the McKinley High parking lot with "I'd Come For You" by Nickelback blasting from the speakers. He loved that car, as did everybody else. I know I sure did.

I thought he was so cool.

I never thought he'd even consider being friends with an effeminate loser like me, and I sure as hell never imagined having him for a stepbrother, either. But both those events did come to pass, thanks to our parents falling in love and getting married.

And I certainly never imagined that in just a few years, he'd be dead.

That's why I bought the car in the first place: to have something to remember him by, even though the one he'd had had long since bitten the dust. But still, my car has held up surprisingly well—just like me.

After a few minutes, I eased myself out of the car—which was a real painful chore, due to the hip and knee replacement surgery I had to undergo last summer—and shut the door. As I turned up the collar on my favorite wool coat and made my way toward the cemetery's front gate, a million thoughts went through my head: the challenges I faced due to my sexuality, my days in New Directions (my high school's glee club), my acceptance into NYADA, and the friends I'd made.

My friends. That's what really hit me the hardest.

They were all gone.

When you're young and naïve, things like death, old age, mortality, and loneliness never enter your thoughts. All you're really worried about is trying to fit in, find your niche, and just being able to get through the day. Not once does it ever occur to you that your time on this earth is finite. Sure, it's a childish, stupid way to think, but then again, aren't all teenagers a bit childish?

Cane in hand, I shivered from the bitterly cold wind as I hobbled up the brick pathway. I was never crazy about winter, even in my youth, but now that I'm 80, it's a real pain in the ass—both literally and figuratively. On the upside, I wouldn't have to deal with going up a big hill, which I couldn't do anyway, even if I wanted to.

I looked to my right, and there it was: the big sycamore tree. It was still as massive as it had always been, and in the winter, it looked like Jack Frost had painted it in every shade of blue, grey, silver and white. Not only that, it was the biggest tree in the entire cemetery, at least 50 feet tall. Best of all, there was a black stainless steel bench right beside it. And a good thing, too, because I really needed to sit down and rest a minute.

As I sat down, I looked out across the snow, and right in front of me were the gravestones of all my old glee club friends. These were the best friends I'd ever had in my life, and if it weren't for them, I can quite honestly tell you that there's no way I'd be where I am today. However, as grateful as I was for having known them, it was also a bittersweet moment for me.

Like I said earlier, Finn was the first one of us who died. To this day, I still remember getting the phone call from Carole, his mother. She told me that she'd been told by a highway patrolman that Finn and a friend of his were on their way home from a movie when a texting driver ran a stop sign and hit them—not head-on, but at a slight angle. The other driver got a little banged up, but Finn and his friend were both killed instantly.

I was devastated. This wasn't supposed to happen. We're supposed to live long, full lives, not die young. And especially not the way he died. Kids are supposed to outlive their parents, not vice-versa. I was an emotional wreck for weeks after it happened, and I never thought I'd get over that loss. I was also pissed at the other driver, and for the longest time, I wanted nothing more than to find him and kick his ass.

Little did I know it, but that was just the beginning.

Puck was the next one to go. He never got over losing Finn, even though he always put on a brave face for all of us. But he didn't fool me, though. I knew he and Finn were the best of friends, two peas in a pod: both football players, both tough guys, and always having each other's backs. Everybody knew he was still in so much pain, but he always ran away from it instead of facing it. We all tried to convince him to talk to somebody, anybody, about what he was dealing with, but he always told us he was going to be all right. And he was, at least for awhile. He joined the Army shortly after graduation, he married Quinn, and they had a son. Unfortunately, it didn't last. He was kicked out of the Army on a bogus sexual assault charge, Quinn left him and took the baby, and the bank foreclosed on their house. When I got the news that he'd killed himself, I was sad, but I wasn't surprised. I don't think any of us were.

Over the years, one by one, they all dropped like flies: Mercedes, heart attack. Mike, brain tumor. Sam, motorcycle crash. Artie, pneumococcal pneumonia. The only ones of us who lived long enough to see old age were Rachel, Quinn, Brittany, Santana, Mr. Schue, Emma, Blaine, Tina and myself. We thought we really lucked out, and we all used to joke about starting an aging Broadway star revue.

But, like the saying goes, fate doesn't care about your plans.

Just last month, Blaine died. He was the love of my life, my rock, my savior, my everything. It was prostate cancer that took him. He fought it long and hard for eleven years, but eventually, he lost the battle. I hadn't cried that much since Finn's passing, which was hard enough, but after Blaine went, that's when the reality sunk in: I was the last one left.

Leaning on my cane for support and adjusting my trifocals, I got up from the bench and walked over to his gravestone. I then reached under my coat and took out a red rose that was encased in plastic so it wouldn't freeze. As I laid it on the ground, I looked out of the corner of my eye at the other graves. Like Blaine's, they too had a single rose on them. After Finn died, we all made a pact that we'd visit each other's graves every chance we got, and each time, we'd bring a rose. I'm happy to say that we've kept our promise to each other.

As I looked over the graves of my friends, I realized that I was very softly humming the opening bars to Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'". That was our theme song, our rallying cry, and our motto. As long as we had each other, we never would stop believing that things would get better, or that they'd work out in the end.

And I, for one, never will stop believing.

THE END