Cafe Hitch-hike

2022-06-03

Silent spaces

I was asleep when Uncle Joe died, they assume it was at night when he did and in my mother's living room recliner. He told her he wanted to stay in the recliner and when she woke up at 7 a.m., he was gone.

I think Carlo must had passed when Rafael came over, and then we went to eat at that that 3-for-1 drink place where the senior citizens get down and dance (and the pan seared snapper with mashed sweet potatoes was much better than expected).

Well, well. Carlo was rather short with me in our last exchange of texts and the last thing I said was, "I feel sad that you are in hospice, but what can we do? I simply don't want to say or do anything that would upset you or cause more pain. I wish I could be there, and that is all I can really say."

And a day and a half later, I got the text followed by a call from Giancarlo, his neighbor (I had to smile at the name at least). I was in the middle of a meeting and I left it to answer the phone call. Carlo left incomplete instructions about his things, which I'm sure were blurred in his shuffling care. Carlo wanted to send me a few coins, but I'd be surprised if that happens. He never seemed to understand that nothing happens unless he signs something. He still operated in the landscape of verbal agreements, handshakes, and personal honor.

It all feels so strange that he passed because so much feels incomplete. I knew Carlo (in his public stance) was proud, independent, and with a stoic side. He never told me his prognosis, it was always something I always had to figure out between the lines or through what he described to me. It was like his acknowledging the shape he truly was in would be an admission of weakness, or would somehow strip him of his independence.

It was so strange because we were people-watching in Trafalgar Square the last time I had seen him in London. Carlo was very much enjoying the moment, I could see that through his spirit, but I could tell his body was strained and exhausted (it also didn't help that London had a heatwave). It was such a contrast from our summer nights in 1998 with our pub crawls throughout Central London. Last night, Rafael and I watched a movie that had scenes from places where we walked in London, and I thought of that time and the summer of 1998 when we met, and that particular memory of Trafalgar Square came to mind.

It's almost like Carlo wanted his death to be inconsequential like another one of his doctor appointments or trips to the betting shop. I can't be angry that he didn't see it differently. Carlo had his stoic, independent way of being and I guess he managed the end of his life in the same way. It was hard to tell him how I felt because I knew he wouldn't want me to feel that way (and dammit, I was gonna and did), but I guess all I could that bit in my last text to him.

I remember then when my college mentor MJ died, I gradually felt sad. His health was very poor for the last 4 years of his life and he didn't want people to see him in that shape (he was a community activist and a highly respected member of my town's Latin community). I understood and accepted all of that. What I didn't expect was feeling like that era of my life faded with him. Maybe it was the last thing needed to shed it, I don't know, but I didn't expect to feel that to be attached to that ending.

I almost wonder if I'll feel something similar, like that time of my life and what it meant to me may be shorn (or transformed). We were apart for almost all of it, too, and it was a long-distance friendship. The interesting thing was despite the distance and years, he still knew me very well and knew when I was in one of my states (which he called my 'knickers being in a twist'). I still sensed parts of him, too.

Something inside me braked after Giancarlo's messages. The morning was full of meetings, and his announcement and call had me going from 45 miles per hour to parking lot speed. It happened automatically. I guess this is life's automatic way of stopping for death's announcement. When it comes in, you just stop, stand, and bow your head or take of your hat. Almost like as what Chrissie Hynde sang, "when love walks in the room, everybody stand up," like a judge entering a courtroom. Death, love, and birth alike evoke that motion; I thought we did it because it was something we were taught, but maybe it's something we do simply because it's human and programmed in us.

And so I'll slow or stop for a bit. This was a long friendship, and some things were complicated. I'll need to stop to unwind it, make sense of it, and figure out what to do with this space in my psyche that's vacant now that Carlo is gone.

I want to cry, but there's work do to and things to get done. Well, what the hell, everyone in the building has had deaths and losses these last 2 years. I kind of think we've created the norm of creating silent spaces, so I'll take mind, go home when the workday is done and cry.

Oh, and drink at least one pint in a Carlo-like fashion. In most of the pictures I had of him from 1998, he had a glass of something in his hand. I'll drink one for London, one for Rothemann (his village), and at least one for him. Prost!

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