.COM

My neighbor across the street

and down, died this morning.

Of colon cancer. Ending

four months of watching

birds in his back yard,

and eating ice cream, his pain

dumbed by a morphine drip

so carefully calibrated

only a machinist, which

he was, could fully

appreciate it. And his wife.

Such a fine and terrible

day to close out a life.

The first morning, really,

you could see your breath;

sunlight slicking every

still-green leaf. The air

windless, brisk, and edgy.

Then, the white van. Not

a hearse. A plain white

van in the drive. No

lettering at all. Just

two men. One in an uncle’s

tired brown suit; his bulky

companion in shirtsleeves

following; both walking

as if in bedroom slippers;

wheeling their gurney up

the lawn to the rear of the house

through the sparkling dew,

past the red geraniums

and drifts of pink

impatiens

—

www.death.com.

It’s early. No children

maunder yet toward their

orange bus. And young

couples, behind the closed

doors of their duplexes,

ready themselves for a day’s

work. Not a car passes.

In such suburbs, no

aproned women approach

death’s door bearing

covered dishes. Later,

I’ll remember how he gave

away his last precision

tools. And still later,

bedroom shades will be

raised, windows opened,

and air enter the house,

and light, and silence.