Just Words: Death

I stepped into the doorway and saw my mother's small frame sprawled on the chaise with a book in her hand and a Bible at her feet. It seemed like Day 7 of the same, without rest. I wondered if she had any lungs left to cough out or any brains left to sneeze out. Selfishly, I wondered when I'd get a good night's sleep sans the violent symphony of her sickness.


She turned to me before I ascended the stairs, hood over her head, and said: “I talked to your grandmother today. Uncle Matthew died.”


He was 82 and the only family Nana had over on the west coast. For years, he had been calling her every morning to touch base. Apparently it grated on her at times. She was supposed to get together with him on Saturday, but she called him on Friday night to cancel, because she was exhausted from the day's proceedings.


She didn't hear from him Saturday morning.


She didn't hear from him Sunday morning.


She called him Sunday morning before she went to church.


She called him Sunday afternoon after she returned from church.


She went to his apartment complex to check on him.


She came back with a man with a key to check on him.


Uncle Matthew was lying in his bed, glasses on, all dressed up with nowhere to go. In his wake, he left years of his prized collected novelties. Everything. Everything. Everything. Three times to resurrect that point. Death is more cryptic and clearer than I could ever dream to be.