The Man Upstairs

The man upstairs is dying.

Just several weeks ago, his doctor told him he has between two and six months to live. It wasn't very long ago when I'd see him watering the yard.

Mr. M is a retired hapa haole man who looks straight out of a Reyn's commercial. He's managed to raise a beautiful family and be with his wife all these years.

But the weeds in the yard are growing. And this morning, instead of seeing him standing in the yard with his khaki walk shorts and aloha shirt, I see another man who rode to our house in a Toyota truck with oversized wheels. He's got a cap on and a dirty T-shirt, workboots and a towel around his face. A professional.

Sometimes at night, Mr. M's coughs are so loud and strong, the sound seeps below to our apartment. Mrs. M has taken leave to be with Mr. M, and I can only imagine her getting up to give him water or get him a towel or feed him or bathe him or change his clothes.

And still, everyone else's life goes on as usual. I still put my makeup on in the morning the same way. I listen my new Rich Crandall Jazz Trio CD. I still worry about the documents I need to write at work. I choose which dress shoes to wear from a white plastic shoe rack.

All this, while the man upstairs is dying.

Posted by ruth at September 19, 2002 08:01

Comments

It's too bad that you can't get a piano upstairs so that the man could listen to you play. Your music has a way of reaching the soul. If you have a recording of your music, a gift of your songs would surely soothe and calm him.
Posted by: kane on September 20, 2002 05:42 PM

Kane,
Thank you again for your thoughtfulness and kind words. Sometimes I refrain from playing since music can open up deep, deep wounds. I think I'll begin to sense when the time is right to share or simply keep my distance.
I'll keep you posted.
Ruth
Posted by: Ruth on September 20, 2002 06:19 PM