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.
Dog-eared Stories by anne celano frohna 