Tag: being kind

Death’s been a frequent caller

in our tiny, aging town

on our tiny, ancient street

where two blue seas

and Italy’s heel meet.

and though the visits

could sit heavy on my heart,

as one life after another

ceases to be,

reminding me

that more days lie behind me

than in front,

i watch with great interest

the mourners

so dutifully insistent

that each death

is unjust

that a full life led is…

simply not enough.

for years now, i’d listened

i’d witnessed

the decline of our neighbor’s existence.

too few things to do

(sad life without some meaning)

filling his do-nothing days

with too many cigarettes

and brutal fits of coughing.

I’d know he’d been drinking

when he’d start woefully singing

to his audience of one.

the family appeared for scattered visits

for certain occasions

– forced obligations

ever marked by raised voices

and solemn conclusions,

til eventually

they just stopped coming

and his small, purposeless body

slowly ceased to properly function.

as i,

an inadvertent witness

to his days

acutely dwindling,

daily listened

through the season’s open windows

just steps from his open door

observing his laggard, painful exit

wondering with my husband

what might come next;

it came in the charge of a caregiver

whose duties now brought daily clamor

to our small, mostly quiet courtyard

as she tried to do her difficult job

of trying to keep her ward alive

– though his body refused

to fall in line;

while his stubborn nature

abused the peace,

her compassion,

her patience,

her pleas to eat

to drink

so that his failing body

might gain strength.

i know her persistence

was in her job description

and the family’s determination

was what they thought

they ought

to do about his dying

though they’d long ago

stopped trying

while he was with the living.

yet who could really blame them?

naught was going to change him.

so, every time he threw up

what the caregiver got down

i’d shake my head and wonder…

Why?

why such persistence

to prolong

such a miserable existence?

at 83, he’d lived his life

and made his choices

of mean habits

and a meaner constitution.

daily reminding

this close-knit community

of his sour disposition.

though seen as his new friend

for whom he always had a smile

i still witnessed wicked flashes

of this well earned reputation

and when he moaned

of being alone

i, too, knew

the cause was solely his own.

yet who was I to try to change

the utterly unchangeable?

I’m merely a familiar face in town

– an assimilated stranger

just trying to live my life with good;

to assist our neighbor,

when I could.

to listen

– as we should.

Death’s inadvertent witness

standing at the casket’s end

wishing better journeys ahead

for our lonely, unbendable neighbor

and my forlorn, unchangeable friend.