The Color of Dying Page #3

This is a story about how attitudes about life and dying are intimately connected.

• Short story

								

“Your aunt and I had quite a row over what I am about to tell you and give you, and, I must admit, it is only because of our long friendship and my own approaching… (she paused as if searching for the perfect word) disembarkment from this world as your aunt is hoping to do, that I finally agreed to fulfill her wish.”
He sat puzzled. Although Martha and Mrs. Sylvester spoke nearly every day of their long friendship, as far as he knew, they had not seen or spoken to each other since a week or so before his aunt had been transferred to this hospice center. 
“She also asked me to make sure,” she continued, “that you understand this was entirely her idea and decision and that I was not to continue on with my mission until you understood that and agreed to hold no one else responsible.”
“Mrs. Sylvester, wha…” 
“Please, Jeffery, do you understand and agree?”
“But …” he started but seeing the determined look on her face and knowing that his aunt rarely did anything, especially when it came to him, without a very good reason, he relented. “I understand and I agree.”
“Good.  Your aunt was – is – a very wise woman as I am sure you know. The last time we were together was, I thought, going to be quite awkward. We both knew exactly what lay ahead and the time for goodbyes was near at hand. She insisted that those goodbyes should happen while she was still ‘fully in this world’ as she put it and at no time after, meaning that would be our last time together. After a few hours of stories, laughter and tears, she got very serious and made me promise three things to her. First, I was not to visit her when she entered hospice which, knowing her, she knew was coming soon. That is why you have not seen me. 
“Jeffery, your aunt loved you in ways you may never fully comprehend. She had no children of her own as you well know and, as tragic as the sudden deaths of your parents were, she felt that she had been given a wonderful gift. She marveled at your seemingly unquenchable thirst for life and all its meaning, and she literally danced with me when she told me how you finally broke out of your cocoon as a gay man. She hated the closet analogy, you know. To her you were an open book but a mystery story. So much was evident to her, often before you ever realized it, but the ending was still unknown. There were so many twists and turns in your story. She feasted on every page.
“There was, however, one thing that she knew very clearly about you that would make her imminent death very difficult. She knew that in your head you were ready for her death and that you would not let her cling or hang on for your sake, but there was one thing that she is afraid of that may keep her clinging to you.”
“Mrs. Sylvester, for the last god-knows-how-many hours I have been practically pleading with her to leave. It hurts me; no, it is destroying me to see her being so stubborn! We talked and talked about this. I told her I was ready. We planned everything together. She doubted that I was really ready, I know, but then she took that turn and ended up here and I never got to convince her that it was okay. Why would she cling to me?”
“Jeffery,” she said as she leaned forward and took his hands in hers, “she would not tell me anything more except the two other promises: I was to call the nurse everyday to get an update, and if it seemed like she was hanging on, then I was to bring you this.” She reached into her purse that was sitting in her lap and pulled out a sealed envelope with his name on it in his aunt’s handwriting. “Finally, she asked me not to stay around, so I will find William and go. You don’t need to see me out. I do have one favor to ask, though. After all is said and done, would you mind dropping by? I have something to show you and ask you.”
He leaned forward and kissed her hands. “It’s a promise,” he said and watched her silently wheel herself away. 
He hesitated, not ready for what her words may bring. He ran his fingers over her elegant handwriting and slipped his finger in and opened the envelope.

Jeffery,
Remember how when you were a little boy, you would come to visit your Aunt Tillie and I at the house in the country and the two of you would run about in bare feet chasing after lightning bugs? Tillie convinced you that, if you caught enough of them in a jar, all their flashing would be enough for you to read a book in your bedroom. I had to be the one to tell you that those poor bugs would die if you kept them in the jar like that. Nothing that is locked away can live. You wanted to keep their light by your bed so badly – you were so afraid of the dark – but you were also smart enough and brave enough to let go of their light and let them live as they wanted to live.  You once told me that I was the light of your life. It’s time, Jeffery, and I know you are smart enough and brave enough to let me go. But it’s time to stop being afraid of the dark. Celebrate the color of dying!  I can’t go until you let go of the gray. 
Martha

He stood by her bed and cursed. “Damn, you, Martha! Don’t you ever give up?” As he read the letter again the memories of that summer arose behind his teary eyes. He remembered  the golden flashes of the tiny black bugs as they moved slowly to the edge of the jar and flew away. Something else that he had forgotten arose in him. A feeling. No, conflicting feelings. The boy of those many years ago felt deeply sad about letting go of his hard work chasing and capturing those blinking lights. At the same time, as he watched the last of his dispersing collection disappear into the night, he felt a boy’s sense of awe and joy the letting go gave him. For a moment, in that long ago summer, he felt less afraid of the dark. 
He carefully folded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope. He bent over her serene face, gently kissed her forehead. “Nothing that is locked away can live,” he whispered. “The jar is open, Martha and I’m not afraid. I’m beginning to see the colors. Fly away.” He sat down next to the bed and held her hand.  
An hour later he slowly stepped out of his aunt’s room and closed the door behind him. He walked tall and strong to the nurse’s station despite the exhaustion that filled his body. “It’s okay now,” he said, resting his hands on the station counter. “I think all the arrangements are in the folder I left with you. Thanks for everything.” He turned to leave, stopped and turned to the nurse. “Oh, and thanks for helping Mrs. Sylvester. I am sure it meant a lot to my aunt.”

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