The old man floated in a field of stars at the boundary of his dreams. It was a wonderfully pleasant sensation that slowly dissolved with the arrival of morning and departure from night’s sleep. His eyes broke the crust that had formed upon them in the night. The stars that had surrounded him resolved into spots of light on faded wallpaper, projections of dawn through the moth holes of a tattered curtain. The serenity that had been his night gave way to the reality of a small grey one room apartment.

He lay for a moment organizing his thoughts. The tubular bed, once bright brass but now the patina of an old penny, was barely wide enough to accommodate the slow turn of his body. It creaked as he extended his hand toward the window that was the room’s only link to the sights and sounds of the street below. Sliding the curtain to the side the room exploded with Fall light that overwhelmed his senses. Sight slowly returned to eyes that drew focus upon his hand still holding the edge of the drape. The skin, once thick and full, had become paper thin and translucent. Light pierced his fingers like an x-ray, illuminating veins and bone. Beyond the hand he saw through the panes of dust etched glass to the street that ran before the storefront below. The park beyond was a network of sidewalks woven between the trees that cast their branches skyward.

Getting up in the morning, once a fluid and unconscious movement for him, had become a daily challenge that began with the act of grabbing the headrail of the bed with one hand and slowly pushing his body to vertical with the other. Legs extended over the side of the bed as knees audibly creaked the first bending that took his feet to the floor. The arches of his feet were like the rusted leaf springs under a tired old truck, function diminished by thousands of miles of road and the burdens that they had carried. His feet had tread uncounted millions of steps, carrying a body that was once large and powerful, but now shrunken and fragile. The pain of placing his feet upon the cold linoleum floor gave way to pressure as he slowly stood with the uncertainty of a man on a tightrope.

Taking a moment to steady himself he surveyed the room. Overhead was a single unshaded porcelain fixture with sockets for three lightbulbs but now holding only one. It was an accommodation to the economy that an inadequate retirement income thrust upon him. Across the room was a small painted wood table and a single bentwood chair. They were the only furniture that he owned save for the bed. The chipped surface of the off-white table revealed colored layers of paint that gave hint to its age like the rings of a tree. A counter with white sink and hotplate served as his kitchen. Separate hot and cold water spouts were pitted chrome with crazed porcelain handles that bore “H” and “C” respectively. They mocked him daily as corrosion had long made them inoperable. The drain still worked and a walk down the hallway outside his door to the communal bathroom served the sanitary needs of his body and gave him access to water for his pitcher.

He stood at the sink and faced the faded mirror above it. He plugged the drain with an old rubber stopper that was secured to the sink by a length of string. He poured tepid water from the pitcher into the sink to continue his morning routine, preferring the privacy of his room to the running water of the bath down the hall. The sink in his room served for washing his face, brushing his teeth, and the alternate day task of shaving. Today was an even numbered day. Shaving would be his purpose tomorrow.

Peace Everyone. Pete Schloss

I had just turned to the 57th page in the book of my life when my Father closed the cover on his. I was ready for his death. He had been ready for it much longer. Over the years, MS had eroded the quality of his life to the point that once when I asked, “How are you Dad?”, he merely replied, “Waiting…”.

The funeral was traditional. Mercifully the casket remained closed and I was spared the well-meaning but misplaced comments about how “peaceful” or “natural” he looked. The established formula for a funeral and burial had been followed with the gathering of family and of his friends whose numbers were reduced by the attrition of 87 years. I had not given much thought to the purposes of those rituals until a few months later when I was confronted with the task of burying him a second time.

In the middle of doing something unrelated, Dad appeared before me. He was not alone. To his right was Bill, and to his left was Dan. This was not some ghostly apparition but there he was. Reflexively I reached out to touch him, but I knew that he could not and would not answer. There was no longer any meaning attached to him being there. It was left for me to bury him again.

The contrasts between his first internment and this second unexpected one were stark. Then, I had been surrounded by those who had shared his life. Now I was alone. Before, there had been well ordered preparations. Here, I was caught unaware. The disposition of my father’s body had been accomplished by strangers who were experts of their trade. Here, I knew that I could not delegate the closing of this “casket”.

It was silly of me to hesitate, but sentiment restrained my hand. I compelled myself to touch Dad in a way that would forever take him from my eyes. A bit of ironic cruelty was inserted into the moment as I was asked whether I was sure I wanted to do this. “Yes Dad…”. I touched him a second time and he was gone. It was as if he had never been there. No monument or marker would be erected, he just ceased to be. Bill and Dan were now shoulder to shoulder as I closed the cover of my cell phone, deleting him forever from my list of contacts.

Peace Everyone. Pete Schloss