I always buy water or a snack at this small "bodega" in my town of 600. The little store is inside someone's house. I walk up, do the greetings, give besos, sometimes sit and chat about the day. About a month ago, they brought their abuelito (grandpa) to their home. He is dying. I walk into the store and I see him laying there. It's concerning. I always ask out of courtesy how he is doing. He is quite, his eyes are always closed. He is disturbingly skinny, his rib cage exposed. A skeleton with flesh. It smells like human feces. They try to keep him comfortable until he goes back to the Earth, where we all end up.
Today one of the señora's tells me, "Hablélo." Talk to him. So I do. Man how my days turn in Peace Corps.
I pull up a seat, sanitize my hands. I am a cesspool of bacteria and my first thought is not to get him anymore weaker. They pick up his head and legs to sit him upright. I try to help awkwardly, they say no no, it's okay. He is facing me. I all of a sudden have no words. "How are you?" just sounds idiotic. "It's hot, huh?" comes out because the time you can stare at someone with a no-teeth smile before it gets awkward, even with a dying man, diminishes rapidly. He nods. I imagine how much energy this "conversation" is taking. I wonder if I am hurting him. He is blatantly fragile.
I notice there's a bible on his bed. I ask what verse he was reading. The señora says he can't read, she was reading to him about angels and heaven, as he will soon be one there.
I can't help but want to make the most out of this conversation. Who knows if it will be his last? I think I failed...but maybe that's okay. There's a mediocrity to us humans we are reminded about around death. We are reminded of the natural cycle of life. I won't live forever and I am small. I am important but indeed I am small.
I asked him how old he is. 89. If his family is taking good care of him as a joke. He laughed and then coughed up blood. They cleaned him. Again I tried to pull up a trapo (wash cloth). They told me not to worry. "Solo hablélo."
I asked if he liked music. Yes. If he wanted the family to play him music. Yes. He wants to listen to music.
They turned the music on and we just sat there. Personally I was happy the pressure was off me for entertainment. He closed his eyes and started moving his fingers up and down to the beat.
A couple long kumbia songs later, I said I should be going. He just looked at me. I said I'll see him later when I get thirsty and need water again. I think this was an attempt of a joke, but he said, "Maybe you won't." I smiled and walked out the door saying bye y gracias to the family simultaneously.
Inappropriate. Raw. Honest.
If only life could be this true every day.
Today one of the señora's tells me, "Hablélo." Talk to him. So I do. Man how my days turn in Peace Corps.
I pull up a seat, sanitize my hands. I am a cesspool of bacteria and my first thought is not to get him anymore weaker. They pick up his head and legs to sit him upright. I try to help awkwardly, they say no no, it's okay. He is facing me. I all of a sudden have no words. "How are you?" just sounds idiotic. "It's hot, huh?" comes out because the time you can stare at someone with a no-teeth smile before it gets awkward, even with a dying man, diminishes rapidly. He nods. I imagine how much energy this "conversation" is taking. I wonder if I am hurting him. He is blatantly fragile.
I notice there's a bible on his bed. I ask what verse he was reading. The señora says he can't read, she was reading to him about angels and heaven, as he will soon be one there.
I can't help but want to make the most out of this conversation. Who knows if it will be his last? I think I failed...but maybe that's okay. There's a mediocrity to us humans we are reminded about around death. We are reminded of the natural cycle of life. I won't live forever and I am small. I am important but indeed I am small.
I asked him how old he is. 89. If his family is taking good care of him as a joke. He laughed and then coughed up blood. They cleaned him. Again I tried to pull up a trapo (wash cloth). They told me not to worry. "Solo hablélo."
I asked if he liked music. Yes. If he wanted the family to play him music. Yes. He wants to listen to music.
They turned the music on and we just sat there. Personally I was happy the pressure was off me for entertainment. He closed his eyes and started moving his fingers up and down to the beat.
A couple long kumbia songs later, I said I should be going. He just looked at me. I said I'll see him later when I get thirsty and need water again. I think this was an attempt of a joke, but he said, "Maybe you won't." I smiled and walked out the door saying bye y gracias to the family simultaneously.
Inappropriate. Raw. Honest.
If only life could be this true every day.
No comments:
Post a Comment