this is not the story of the wallflower across the street that blossoms into a sultry siren. this is the story of my septuagenarian neighbor. a woman i've shared a common wall with for the past five months, but met only once.last week she died. and things have not been the same since.
• • •
i have been fortunate enough to keep death on the perimeter of my small world. when i was younger, it was distant relatives that passed. strangers. as i became older, it was my parent's friends, then my siblings acquaintances, until the circle became tighter. and now, people i know or have known have faded into that dark place, sometimes suddenly, and sometimes slowly, painfully drifting away.
still, i've never had death in my house. have never had an ailing relative make the transition while i moved about from room to room. i've not been there for the last breath.
• • •
the corridors of our 1970s complex are infinitely long, and the sparse lighting echos off the pale rose walls. because of my unusual hours, i always seem to wander thru them alone, making several tight turns en route to our doorway. everyone is asleep or still at work. my roommate is out of town, or out on the town. everything is quiet.
odd then, that on this particular day my neighbor and i exit our doors at exactly the same moment and nearly run into each other. she says hello, tells me her name is mary, and we exchange the usual banter that comes with sharing a building. she tells me our mutual neighbor is quite sick and currently in assisted living. that the lady's daughter comes by from time to time to check on the condo that her mother rarely sees.
like most in my community, she is older, but healthy, lively and chatty. a widower with no children, she's lived here a while and likes the place. she is nondescript, her face and posture simple and plain. there are no red flags of what's to come.
• • •
the following friday i get a message from my roommate. and since we rarely interact outside our space, i call her immediately, feeling a bit uneasy.
she tells me the news. that on the way to work this morning, she was greeted by four police officers. that there's an ambulance and a fire truck outside. mary's door is ajar. there's activity inside, but there will be no resurgence.
the packages on her doorstep had been there for a few days. i assumed she had been traveling. but they were the sign. the key that something was askew.
she has no next of kin. there is no one to notify. the end of her life is marked by packages on a doorstep. but when? how long was her body alone while she transcended.
* * *
i arrive home midday, the hallways are still. i make the turn down the last corridor, expecting to see or feel something unusual. but it's the smell that overwhelms me. i fumble with my keys, slip in, and quickly close the door behind me.
it must have been days. maybe a week. maybe the day we met.
• • •
the next few days, i hold my breath and have my keys ready before making the final turn down the hall.
but once inside, i can't get the thought out of my head: death was here. on my doorstep. floating thru the same pale corridors i walk alone.
did we pass each other in the hallway - was that the faint flicker of the lights.
did i brush his shoulder as he floated thru the halls.
did he stand behind me and observe while i fumbled with my keys, a light breath on my neck.
was i on the other side of the wall when he finally pulled her away.
