"Ave Maria"

A few days ago, just before Christmas, I was in the car on my way to finish up some shopping.  The car radio was on a station that plays all Christmas music from Thanksgiving to Christmas.  I was struck by the hauntingly beautiful but almost mournful tone in which a female soloist was singing "Ave Maria." 

As I listened to these strains, I rounded a corner onto a street where there is a small private nursing home.  At the curb, an elderly gentleman was getting out of his car...slowly and with obvious discomfort.  He had a newspaper under his arm.  As I drove by, I watched him teeter around the car and head towards the nursing home entrance.

Although that was my last actual glimpse of him, a video clip began to play in my mind, accompanied by the mournfully rendered "Ave Maria."  He slowly ascended the stairs into the building and painfully walked down a corridor.  In my mind, the corridor was much longer than could have been contained in the actual building.  It was dimly lit, and I watched his silhouette become smaller as he got further away.  Then I saw him, the image of loneliness, enter a room.  In the bed was an elderly woman...his wife....who no longer recognized him.  He kissed her brow, and then sat heavily in the chair and opened the newspaper.  He would spend his day there, although his wife wouldn't appreciate it.  He had nowhere else to go and nothing else to do.

The last sad note of the "Ave" was sung and my private little mental video faded to black.
It has replayed in my mind numerous times since.

Presence and Absence

There is no comparison between presence and absence.

When he is gone...as he is now on a business trip to California....I come home from work, and the house is empty. He isn't usually here when I get home from work, but there is a difference between knowing that he will be home soon and knowing he will not. I mean the house is EMPTY.

The thermostat has been set low during the day, and so the temperature isn't quite up to a comfort zone. The house is cold, and the house is COLD.

The house is silent, and I know it will remain so. I cannot look forward to the snow crunching under the tires of his car as he pulls in the drive, the rhythm of his footsteps coming toward the back door, the opening and closing of the door and the pleasant greeting.

Suppertime will come. I will try to think of something to eat. It isn't any fun to fix a meal for one. What is left over that I can zap in the microwave? No remains needing to be eaten up? Well, maybe I'll have some soup or an egg. If he were here, I would set the table, maybe light a candle, peel real potatoes to go with the meat and vegetable. We would sit and talk as we ate, sharing events of the day and thoughts on life in general. Tonight I will sit in front of the TV while I eat.

Eventually I will go upstairs and get ready for bed. I will put on socks tonight, as there will be no one to warm my cold feet on. I will read for awhile with the TV on too, just for some noise. I will wait for him to call...he always calls when he is out of town. Last night he had terrible laryngitis.

I said, "You sound awful. We shouldn't talk too long."

He said, "I don't mind listening."

I will turn out the light and stare up into the darkness. I will slide my hand across the bed and feel the emptiness, and I will think, "There is no comparison between presence and absence."

He should be home by tomorrow night, and everything will be different.