Softly, gently close the door.
Three steps. Once he used to ascend them two at a time, descend half-leaping, half-walking, two at a time.
Each one is a mountain. Slowly. Don't fall here; don't fall now.
Quietly. Bare feet don't scrape, don't scuff along the cement walkway. A thoughtful decision.
The old man had always loved going barefoot. The child would wander away from home over grassy dirt paths and roads, leaving his shoes for his parents to find. The adult would still run, never losing the child's joy of motion. A beach with firm sand, low tide, feet washed by waves, running, running forever, running.
Going down the steps in winter to retrieve the newspapers on the walk. Cold, snow, ice, it didn't matter. Balls of the feet, minimize contact, minimize exposure, the rise of pain transitory, relief back in the house.
Old times. Good times.
Careful. Concentrate. Nostalgia saps attention. Don't fall here; don't fall now. Three-legged like the riddle.
Success. Which way now?
The walkway to the street, down the street, turn into another road, turn again? A long path, each step a mile. No traffic now, but there could be a car any moment, bright headlights on an old man shuffling barefoot late at night.
Or turn onto the front grass, onto the driveway, through the leaves, barely a path. Uneven ground, branches, sticks, the leaves as sentries. But the house is asleep, the neighbors asleep, and often wildlife would rustle through the tell-tale leaves.
Weigh pluses, minuses, risks, like a business. The crisp air gave aid as a focusing lens - one more decision: the shorter, more difficult, but clandestine path.
And yet another choice at the other end of the path - more steps to the left, or a gentle grassy slope to the right. "Rechts ist wo der Daumen links ist" - that little bit of humor from his childhood had him smiling now. "Humor ist wenn man trotzdem lacht" - still and once more true.
And it helped ease his shuffle across the grass, to gain the sidewalk without a stumble or a dreaded fall. Exposed again, an old man shuffling along. But this was a side street little traveled; all snug in their beds, who's to notice?
A step, and another, then one more. So slow now.
Frailty corroding dignity, eating at self-sufficiency, at the body and at the mind. There could be only decline, deterioration. Another home tomorrow would be the final indignity. Home - so warm, so comforting - borrowed even for final destinations.
He'd seen it, experienced it. The man in the recliner shouting at no one and the whole world, wordlessly saying nothing and everything. A woman with a vacant look passing time tick by tick by tick by tick. A man in his chair, restrained, bound, hopelessly struggling to free himself, for what, for whom? Brown plop-puddling under a wheelchair. His mother ended there - what else could he have done?
Maybe he was just as much of a burden now. He preferred not to think so, having seen, having felt, remembering. But doubt is an acid, or is it an alkali? Was the helix looping around, his turn, payback time - "you'll see when you get old"? He had done the right thing then, never doubting, just maybe it was right now too.
Those doors open once, and never again. The seconds drip inexorably. Wait for a visit, a week, two weeks, more? Activities, keep busy, staff doing its best. Pointless.
How do I measure my worth, my permanence? What do I leave behind? My genes - what say did I have in that, in ruled and random nature? My thoughts, my words, my actions - a butterfly on the other side of the world, but the wings are weak now. A memory by the living?
More and yet more the old man read for himself, wrote for himself, even spoke to himself alone.
Am I what I've collected - books, writings, clippings, records, pictures? Were they worth the many, many hours gathering, perusing, pondering, filing? Should they live on past me? Too much has meaning only for me. But they did give me pleasure then.
He remembered back to when he had to break down his mother's apartment, the one to which she would never come back. Few things had been as hard as throwing out someone's life, trashbag by trashbag.
The mother, again, but there was one immense difference. Declining, indecisive, she delayed, held back, lost the strength to choose her own future. Three awful years. He would not let that happen to himself.
Some long years ago, toward the end of his career, he discovered the liberating joy of control, of deciding for himself: "I'm no longer interested in that position"; "I'll be retiring in October". When asked what he had learned, he said that it was to go out while on top. And then did.
There was nothing more to wait for. Everything that was going to be said had been spoken; what had not been said would remain unspoken.
A step, and another, then one more. So slow now. An old man in striped pajamas, like an escaping prisoner. Which he was.
Yes, he had left the story behind, in plain view, the story of an old man on a final journey, leaving behind, in plain view, the story of an old man on a final journey, leaving …..
A brief smile, a frown - what was the word for that? Don't try, let it come naturally. Concentration is a grenade inside my memory, leaving only fragments.
Keep moving, stop thinking. Every time I think, I halt. A step, and another, then one more. So slow now.
"Die lange lange Straße lang". Das war immer eines seiner Lieblingswerke von Borchert. War er jetzt Leutnant Fischer, der zur wunderhübsch gelben Straßenbahn will? "Links zwei drei vier links zwei drei vier, links zwei weiter Fischer! drei vier links zwei vorwärts Fischer!" Und er dachte daß er verstand was die wunderhübsche gelbe Straßenbahn mit dem uralten Schaffner am Ende der Straße bedeutete.
The story had always seemed so very musical to him, as like a fugue as a linear string of words can ever be. Music. He stood and pondered. The wonder and awe of music that could stir a soul, that so often stirred his own soul. Would that end too, or would there be even greater tones to be heard, to be felt?
Music as metaphor. An evanescent chain of vibrations, seeking eternity.
Ah, recursive, that was the word.
Move on. A step, and another, then one more. So slow now.
Cross the street here. It's quiet and there's a convenient cut in the curbstone. No traffic, no headlights, no houselights.
The crystalline cold would be his final friend. How strange. He had always reveled in warmth, even heat, in the summer furnace with cleansing sweat from every pore, dripping a trail. But warmth was now a false friend, too gentle a friend; he needed a truer, harder companion, not one to seduce with kindness but one to steady resolve, to numb pain, to guide him on the lonely path to the final goal.
How fortunate then that warmth had fled to vacation far away, and that he had the friend that he needed. The frozen moon too, lighting pale blue, just enough, and the icicle stars. The air was still, as if in quiet deference.
There was only numbness. Pain was no more than a memory of warm blood flowing back into unfeeling fingers, toes.
A step, and another, then one more. So slow now.
Cross the street here. It's quiet and there's a cut in the curbstone. No traffic, no headlights, no houselights.
On the other side, finally, the park. It was small, paths everywhere. That would make it harder to hide, for the several hours that he needed. Leafless trees, in miraculous dormancy, everywhere. So few evergreens to give cover. Well-traveled paths led over all the hills. No place to hide there. But no matter - how could he climb now? Paths everywhere. Was there any spot that could not be seen from somewhere?
Rest in the dark. Think back. Remember.
He knew the park well, from walks in the summer green, the winter frost, from hunting mushrooms off-trail. And so he recalled that, not far into the park, near one edge, there was a low wall, and a slope, away from the well-worn paths, away from prying windows of nearby houses.
How tired he was. But soon he could rest, and rest.
A step, and another, then one more. So slow now. Three legs were no longer enough. But a lower profile was better than wobbling along exposed. Careful now, don't leave the third behind - too suspicious.
Done. Now rest gently.
There would be one last adventure. What will happen to this my unique consciousness, to this my sentient self? Whatever love, compassion and empathy I have for other beings, only this my self surrounds me, lives in me, is me. Will it vanish in the end, just as it appeared once from nowhere?
And so we invent god, heaven and eternity to preserve this precious selfness. Is there consciousness without memory?
Open my senses one more time. A low pine-tree close by, blue-green in the dim cool moonlight. A brook below, flowing icy water murmuring. Cruel, uncaring, beautiful nature all around. Above, transparent sky, darkly sprinkled with innumerably many sparks, the vastness of the universe insinuating itself into my consciousness. How could anyone contemplate this all and not feel utterly insignificant?
And yet, there still was my own conscious, my peculiar self. For now.
Schoolboy musings, to the end, never resolved. Too late now, but maybe as it always is and always will be.
Perhaps the supreme entity has a sense of humor and will let me know.
Peter E Schmidt