Two Old Men Talk About Death (And I’m Riveted)

Winter Sunset

Poetry

Here’s Emily Dickinson’s famous, “Because I could not stop for Death-.”

Journeying

At a boulangerie in my daughter’s college town, I munch a chocolate croissant. The place smells like flour, sugar, and coffee. Buttery flakes cover my face and lap. I use my napkin liberally, take a sip of strong black tea, the kind I like. Two grey-haired men, one tall, the other stooped and pushing a blue framed walker, approach the counter. The server takes their order, then tells them she’ll bring it out. She had me wait at the register for mine. The men choose the table next to me, the tall man helping his friend get from walker to seat. This bakery has a black and white checkered floor and petite black circular tables and chairs. Very French, I think, having never been to France. A few minutes later, the server brings their coffees in fat teacups with saucers, a small ceramic jar of cream, and two plain croissants. I check my phone for emails.

“He had a blocked artery; he was only 55.”  This is the tall one.  He continues, “He sent me a list of his medications.  He took eighteen pills and three injections a day.” 

“I’m surprised he lasted as long as he did,” says Walker. 

Whoever died was only two years older than I am. A woman at the table next to me folds napkins and talks to the server.  We smile at each other.  I decide she is the owner.

“Did you get a new snowblower?” asks Tall Man. I can’t imagine Walker pushing a snowblower, but he says, “Yeah, a 1500.” Maybe he has help, a child who lives nearby.  I hope.  Their conversation distracts me.  I’m having a hard time answering emails.  My fingers tap the phone’s tiny screen.

“She’s been gone three years now?” Tall Man is full of questions. 

“Five,” Walker replies.  

Tall man again, “I remember the day when she drove up in that red Prius you had and told me you were in the hospital. I’d have never thought you’d live longer than she did. Because of your age.”  

The sentence hangs between them. Both men stop to chew and drink.  I wish they would stop talking about death.  But I’m riveted. Is that truly the only topic left once you reach a certain age?  Is that age fifty-five?

Tall Man switches subjects., “I went to Emily’s.”  I turn my head, startled at the mention of my name.  “That Lebanese deli.”  I return to my phone screen, but it’s just a prop now.  “To get hummus, you know, they have that really strong hummus with lots of garlic in it.  Anyway, I got a quart of tabouli and a half a quart of hummus, and it cost $25.08.  Can you believe that?” 

I can.  The last time I went to the grocery, I paid $7.00 for a dozen eggs.

The caffeine must finally be hitting Walker. He tells a story of his own, “I know a guy who went in for open heart surgery and had a stroke. In the middle of the surgery. He lived, but he doesn’t live very well. He can’t walk, and he slurs his speech. You can’t understand him.” I wonder if the man who had the stroke shares this opinion. Is he glad to have escaped death, or does he wish it had caught up with him?

My teacup is empty, my croissant eaten. I give my lap a final brush and return my dishes to the black plastic bin near the bathrooms. On my way out, I pass the owner, still at the table. Now, she’s poking dried flowers into petite vases for the tiny tables. I smile and wave good-bye. The two men have extricated themselves from their chairs. They follow me to the door. I hold it open, one-armed. Tall Man grabs it. They make their way across the street to a car. Tall Man folds and stows the blue walker in the trunk, then helps his friend to open the driver’s side door and climb in behind the wheel. Walker drives and pushes a snowblower? Tall man circles to the passenger side, opens the door, drops heavily into his seat.

I hop into my own car. I have a five-hour drive today. On my way out of the neighborhood, I pass a storefront with a bright green door and wide black awning. The white letters on it read, “Emily’s Lebanese Deli.” I wonder how old this Emily is. Should I stop at her store with the ominous awning and vibrant door? No, I’ve got a long drive ahead. I want to make it before dark.

Gardening and Making/Mending

An open window and a breeze blown curtain

According to the calendar, Nebraska should have at least another month of winter left. But the last two weeks have brought such warm weather, that my brain believes it’s April and has told my body to start digging holes. My ears listen to the birds’ excited warm weather chatter; my body feels the unexpected warmth, and I google the planting dates for American Bittersweet. This fast growing native vine produces beautiful orange berries in the fall for the birds to find, and I have a very exposed southwest corner of my house that needs some shade. However, I have reservations about planting something that grows with abandon and sends suckers up all around its base. American Bittersweet also requires both male and female plants to fruit, which means I’d need to plant two. How long would it take for the plants to engulf my house? Should I risk the integrity of my roof for a house covered in vines? It’s tempting, to hide from the world behind a veil of green.

A bag and a pillow

Much sewing has happened since my last newsletter! I made a bag from some Japanese quilting fabric I purchased the last time I visited my daughter at college. I modeled the bag on one my daughter’s friend had made and gifted her. That bag was the perfect size, not too big, straps not too long, and with a lining. I added an internal pocket for knitting paraphernalia, needles, small sewing scissors, thread. I have also completed the pocket portion of another pillow for my partner’s apartment (alliteration anyone?). I need to attach the crocheted cover (also, by me) to one side of the pillow case. I’ll sew that by hand. And finally, I cut out the fabric for a short sleeve top, I plan to sew for myself. I haven’t made a garment in a couple of years. This is a simple pattern with a few nice finishing details to keep my interest and stretch my disused sewing muscles. I am much more interested in product than process when I sew, so I remind myself to slow down and enjoy the stitches as I create them. I practice finding pleasure in patience.