After a long stretch of cold wintry days, I found myself surprised to face a sky blue and air gentle as I walked out of office. It dawned on me that January has in fact moved soundly to its last leg. The hint of a season’s end was intoxicating. I felt the freeze thawing everywhere: the pedestrians’ face, the 4pm traffic, and the weariness within me. Even this big winter lover was anxious to move on to the next phase. Spring is in the air, and I am happy, or I thought I was. My chest that just opened up moments ago suddenly sank with heaviness. And then and there I wondered why spring could come despite of all.
No, the sun should not shine and sky not blue. And why does this world carry on so casually as if nothing is wrong? The cars were moving, minutes ticking and life recycling just like any other day. I was almost angry. And there it was again, the same anguish that had haunted me all day long. Without any warning, the tears and the sobs overtook me. I started crying.
Why does our subconsciousness or memory continue to keep us captive when we will to flee? The images of Sunday in room 544, almost colorless, a window with a view of grey sky, and a motionless bed where C. slept, flashed on and off without any warning. He had been sleeping much that day, the nurse told us, but it would do him good to have some visitors. She woke him up. I could still see his face – pale, yet almost boyish. He said with a smile that morphine had stopped the pain. He looked content and happy. “Me and the Lord – He sits there and keeps me company”, said he, pointing at the end of his bed. It drew a smile from both of us, and the tears too – smile without much joy and tears of sorrow. He talked on while we listened, struggling to match his playful mood. For a brief second, I wondered if we were the ones lying on that hospital bed and he, the doting pastor-father, comforting the sick and needy.
What do you say to someone who senses the coming of the end? Is there anything that can really convince both inquirer and replier without sounding contrived? “No, there is nothing wrong watching TV at the last days.” Both question and answer were ridiculous. He asked us if we read the book “I heard The owl Call My Name” and with a child-like grin he added: “it’s scary!” The room was still except for our disjointed conversation – the medication he has been taking had impaired some of his hearing and senses. Part of me wanted to stay forever for our mismatched, awkward talk and part of me wanted to run away. The air in that room was stifling, I thought. I looked out of the window and there they were, the seagulls, gliding away silently. I remembered the owl and wondered why it scared him.
I have been there a few times already; it’s only logical at my age. And yet, the fear continues to puzzle and shame me. The promise in my head is no match to the doubt in my heart. Did they really arrive at that final destination that makes up all the toil and ploy of a lifetime? What if at the end of the drudgery we find ourselves opening a door that leads to a wall and all the pain and grief of living and dying is just pain and grief? I looked at C’s face and found neither pain nor grief; his eyes reflected joy and trust, pure and simple. He was at home in that small hospital room with the machines mechanically beeping, nurses and patients quietly passing to and fro. Heaven could be there, as in anywhere: his own home, the podium at the church, or dinner at our kitchen. The fear and doubt was all mine if and when the owl calls; He would be all too happy to go to Vinny’s for our pizza date or that final trip home.
My tears finally stopped. It was but a Wednesday afternoon, with an unexpected relief from a long and cold winter. The pain was still there, burning persistently for a brother-friend whose life has been a hidden treasure: complex yet simple, ordinary and most extraordinary, empowering though demine. Our paths have crossed but a brief 3 years, but I would never trade its depth with the length of any other substitute. I may not have my answers yet, but I know wherever he goes, there I would like to go - even when the owls call my name.
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