Intimations of Mortality

 

Intimations of Mortality

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My friend of over thirty years died last week of an acute and vicious form of leukemia. Richard was 85 years old and had lived a full and vital life. We who knew him are happy/sad. He died surrounded by family, immersed in love, Kathy by his side every moment. He died with so much beauty that the nurses dubbed his room the “Love Bubble”.

Once we wiped out tears, our conversations this past week have been focused on our own ever-increasing signs of mortality, signs both numerous and galloping along at a racing speed, as if afraid of missing the final date. We see it in one another. We feel it in ourselves.

Most of my problems are mechanical. I feel good, amazingly healthy. My locomotion is derailing. In my next life I want to be born with zerts and a grease-gun.

For myself, I am only too aware of how many of my closest, longest-time friends have gone. Years ago, my Aunt Mary, who lived until a mere breath or two below 100, told me that the hardest thing was to no longer have contemporaries, people who knew and shared the same life experiences and histories.

If you wonder what I mean, you try to explain telephone party line to your great-grandchild. Tell them that we used the telephone only when absolutely necessary. We called long-distance for family deaths. You will not be believed. They will roll their eyes. “There she goes again, telling stories.”

Aunt Mary, the important things do continue. People still show us love. We still have opportunities to help a neighbor, to share food, to love one another. I still have a small garden in which to putter, a sewing room convenient for my projects, and a wriggly-wraggly dog to walk and talk with and generally spoil. Actually, Lola spoils me, takes care of me, my therapy dog.

No artist could have duplicated the sunrise colors this morning. Nobody could have painted the crisp air, the wonder at being able to walk the lane, Lola exploring every scent along the way, the way the double-barreled cane trucks roll along the highway to the factory in Tala, the goats across the highway, waiting to be milked. These things are precious, the same, and, yet, different every day.

When I step out the door, I say, “Thank you.” Lola knows what I mean.

Sondra Ashton

HWC: Looking out my back door

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