This Morning Had a Clear Sky

This morning had a clear sky, finger-painted in red near the horizon with lingering dark hesitating before sliding below the horizon where the next group of people, plants, animals, and mineral deposits were waiting for dawn.  Because the temperature registered as 36 degrees with prediction of low 50s by the afternoon, I chose a raincoat over the tedium of wearing a down jacket, making my steps lighter, my head held higher, compared to the hunched, bedeviled doldrum of a winter-weary Monday through Friday.

Neighbors and I awaited the elevator, the familiar "ding" announced the opening door, and we saw that half the elevator had been egged, a substantial puddle of yolk pooled on the linoleum.  Eggshells were lodged where the ceiling met the wall, orange streaks amid the glaze of the egg whites streaming down; we gingerly got on, and once on the ground floor found more smashed eggs outside on the sidewalk.  Other neighbors related that the second elevator had been egged as well.

Coming back after work, lugging groceries, I saw a police car pulled up on the lawn of the apartment building, behind a large van.  Huh, could the police be interested in eggs?  This is a city property, there's been worse than that sort of mess, maybe there's been a fight, an erratic tenant.  Ah well, just be ready to duck.  Another car was backed up to the door, sometimes movers will park there to load up, and it was the first of the month; as I got nearer, the lettering on the door said "Medical Examiner".  Oh no.  Who?

Three other tenants were in the lobby along with a collapsed gurney, a black wooden board on top in the shape of a simple coffin. Apparently it was too large for the elevator.  Two of us had just entered the area in front of the elevators and were checking for mail, another said not to worry, that they were up on the 11th floor and would likely be a while.   However, it wasn't.  The doors slid open and two policemen came out, positioning themselves to prevent crowding of the occupants and the grey body bag which lay on the elevator floor that was still damp from mopping up broken eggs.

Two men in business dress came out and adjusted the gurney to proper height, then picked up the body bag by either end.  It slumped in the middle, seemingly small; mentally I ran down the list of possibilities.  There weren't any elderly residents in this building any more, but the shape suggested a human of slight stature, one of whom there wasn't much left.  A woman dressed in a black blouse and pants was smiling and thanking the officers, the last to emerge from the chamber of the lift.  Coroner?

They spoke in quiet voices or not at all; the remains were handled carefully but with efficiency, everyone was professional, including the observers.  One man who had gotten his mail left as the group appeared, another man and his daughter waited off to the side as things were taken care of, this last journey on earth for the young man who had passed away.

"You know the guy who sat out back?  This was him.  He was only 40, just a baby."

My heart sank, for he was known to me, and would sometimes answer a hello, sometimes not.  The waiting man, his daughter, and myself traveled upwards to our own floors in the space that seconds before had held a somber assemblage transporting, in dignity, evidence of a life lived.

Is there reason for posting so private a topic?  I have little, if any, standing on the subject, but having academically studied death in college through a mostly anthropological lens, I believe in personal privacy yet would like to hear more conversation regarding stages, the reality, philosophy, and traditions.  Investigate cultural practices, such as the charnel houses designed by Catholics (Italy, Czechoslovakia), mummification (just about everywhere), the dressing of bodies of loved ones and keeping them in the family at the dinner table for years (Papua New Guinea); the celebration of the Day of the Dead where skulls of loved ones are carried in windowed boxes and brought gifts (Mexico).  All of this happens, has happened, and is expected to be by varied people who don't view death as a final goodbye, but as a continuation of life.

I have experienced a close death, that of my mother, it is one of the most precious of gifts I have had, being able to be with her when she died.  Other deaths can only be considered tragic, and they leave huge holes behind that will not be healed but might be patched.  All you can do as a bystander is to  remember, and honor the family as well as their loved one.  None of us gets away without a bit torn out of our chests, and I would include companion animals in that.  Love is love.  

Love them, then; love us, love yourself.  Love as much of this world as you can to sustain what we have, and be grateful for having breath another day, or the use of limbs, or for friends, or a place to sleep safely.  It will be okay.  All of it.  Say your goodnights and drift away, take a boat riding over the swells of night, pull in the sail, sidle through dreams, carve slow arcs through the welkin by turning the rudder. Lullaby, lullaby, hush, sweet one.