- Harry

Mar. 13, 2010-12:49 pm

�I hope it is true that a man can die and yet, not only live in others, but give them life... and not only life, but that great consciousness of life.� -Jack Kerouac

Saturday, March 13, 2010

Five and half years?

Has it been that long, really? It's funny - I can still remember parts of that night when I first met Harry
so well, as if they happened yesterday. Other parts
have slowly come back to me as I have tried to recall and preserve them during his illness. Most of what I know about Harry are vicarious stories that were told to me about him. His wry sense of humor. His fig trees. His liberal politics. His loyalty to his life-long friends. His sensible frugality. His generosity.

I think I "knew" he had reached the end of his battle even before I actually heard the words. That flat voice on the phone left no doubt in my mind, split seconds before he said the words I had been dreading for weeks: "Harry passed away an hour ago."

I felt that all-too familiar rush of adrenaline and that white noise in your ears that obscures your surroundings when you hear that sort of news.

Everything else in life, most of which is is inconsistent with a finite time on this earth, is put into perspective.

It was a relatively short battle with cancer. The report wasn't too clear, but I was assured that he went without trauma, in his sleep. He was comfortably numb, and not in the acute pain at the moment of death , that he had suffered with for months prior. It was probably just the way he , or any one of us , would have wanted to go; asleep with friends around him.

But not now. Not at 61.

I was happy that those closest to him were able to be with him , in the loving home where he had been cared for , the place where he died. I was glad that close knit group of friends, which were more like family, were able to see him one more time before they took his body away. That was the last tangible image they would have of him.

Even when those we love die at 97 instead of 61, it is still just as sad, but at least it is more "fair. I remember walking into my 97 year old grandmother's closet the morning after her funeral and burying my
face in her clothes. They smelled like her; a scent that I will
remember my whole life, because that's how long I've known it. That was
the time I cried for the first time.

I still have her favorite chair in my living room. It is conspicuously tattered, especially on the armrests, where she had worn the fabric out over the years. She told me once that since her vision had begun to fail ,the feeling of that fabric's texture under her fingers was like an old familiar friend. I still sometimes touch those spots to connect with her memory.

One day a dear friend was at my house and I told him about the significance of the worn-out chair. He did something that no one else, in the entire time I have lived at my house, has ever done; he sat down in it and placed his hands on those worn spots on the armrests. He looked up at me and smiled. It was a wordless jesture that was so sweet and touching, that I still feel happy whenever I think of it .

Someday the people who lost Harry will smile , not cry when they see one of his possessions, or think of him .

With every goodby you learn, that if you try to hold someone too tightly in your heart, a part of you must remain behind.

We get to the place where our heart doesn't
plummet when that person's name comes up. We learn to talk about the person, and all the great stories, and not feel vaugely guilty about being alive and happy and empty about not having any new stories.

With every painful goodbye , our eyes are opened wide to the beauty of uncertainty and the truth about letting go of the illusion of invincibility.

The memories don't fade, they get sweeter and
clearer. I hope Harry's friends find peace, if not yet complete acceptance. That may never come. But peace... yes. Because we can still feel him with us.

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