Pt. 6

Although Brother Platinum's elderly face was all but indistinguishable from a prune, his luscious 'fro had retained much of it's luster from days gone by, and it was the first thing that Bo's eyes were drawn to in the small, framed photograph he held in his sweaty, trembling hands.

It appeared to have been taken at a Christmas party sometime in the late seventies. In front of the youthful Father Platinum sat an equally young Barry Gibb, clad in white go go boots and an oversized, fringed leather jacket. As the jacket came down past his knees, it was impossible to see what- if anything- was beneath it. His head was thrown back with laughter, his effulgent white teeth bouncing light off of the disco ball that hung on the ceiling above his head. Behind him, Brother Platinum, clad in a paisley silk bathrobe, appeared to be braiding Barry's hair into thousands of tiny corn rows.

Bo found this scene strangely touching and was in a way envious of the two men's freedom of dress. Bo had always possessed an eye for fashion and was, upon his arrival at the monastery, almost more devastated by the fact that his new wardrobe lacked both creativity and variation than he was by his father's passing. Of course, he was only a toddler when he had been brought to the Scabbey Abbey, so his juvenile cries of "where might I find a robe fashioned with a pair of smart cap sleeves?" were always laughed off by the monks.
Captivated as he was by the peculiar photograph, Bo had almost not noticed what was written on the inside of the linen cloth.
"Young Bo," it said, in Brother Platinum's conservative penmanship, "I give you this, a blissful memory of the past frozen in time, so that you might be able to discover