Mrs. C misses her good buddy.
It's a little heartbreaking to hear a frail 93 year old woman as she inches across the shag carpet in her outdated living room with her walker say those words. Maybe, the saddest part of her admission is that her good buddy is alive and right next door.
Mr. G won't leave the house. He won't go out to eat. He no longer will open the door for the mail man. He won't even get the newspaper that is carelessly thrown onto his driveway every single morning. Mr. G keeps his curtains closed. If not for his son and his occasional caretaker, he wouldn't even open his mouth to speak.
Mr. G has given up. His life is about waiting. He's impatiently waiting to die.
He's in bed by 8:00. He awakes early in the morning and immediately walks over to his lazy boy chair in his living room. He reads his newspaper and watches golf all day in between naps. His son feeds him and then he's back in bed. It's his routine.
Mrs. C misses you, Sir. Would you like to go visit her? We ask him in earnest.
NO! He snaps back succinctly at anyone who dares ask.
It was just months ago on Christmas when Mr. G was full of life. Moreso, determination. He's just simply tired; tired from the loss of his independence, tired from 90 years of life, tired of being sick and tired of waking up each day without his wife.
Mr. G is one of the last great ones. He's from that generation that knows sacrifice and hard work. He's from the generation where men and women took their wedding vows to heart as witnessed by his 60 years of marriage before his wife had to leave. He finds joy in simplicity and thinks technology has caused a disconnect between people. He doesn't understand this generation nor does he want to.
Every few months, they say Mr. G won't make it. He always proves them wrong. This time, he won't. He doesn't want to.
I miss my good buddy, Mrs. C softly says with a crack in her voice.
We all do, Ma'am, we reply in unison in one of those rare unrehearsed cosmic moments.
So long, Mr. G.
Godspeed.
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