He died this morning. My neighbor. A kind, friendly, and helpful, elderly man who, although 8 years in this country from Russia, still spoke little English. His most polished phrase was, “Me, hep you?” which he would ask when I was struggling to get an armload of things into the elevator, or out to my car. I often heard Russian television blaring from behind his door and once found a newspaper in his native language in the trash down by the mailboxes. I didn’t understand the words, but pictures are the same in every language. I still have it.
I sit here this morning listening through my apartment door to the sobs of his very American son who found him, mixed with the crackle of the police radios of heavy footed officers doing their thing – getting the facts, offering assistance. The young man is distraught, in complete shock, unable to answer the simplest questions. My heart goes out to him. He sits at the exit door of the building tugging at his hair, trying to get some air – and talking on the phone. It strikes me how the first thing we humans do in crisis is call someone. Reach out. Connect. “This is too big for me. I need you.”
I imagine his son saw him over the last few days. He often came to visit. I wonder if he got to tell his father that one last time, that he loved him. To tell him that he was glad he was here, in the States with him. To let him know how much he appreciated him. It occurs to me again how vital it is to keep important relationships current. To say the things that need to be said. Never, ever, do we know when things will change and the opportunity to share those vital and meaningful communications will be snatched away.
I had intended to, one day, better get to know this man. Some day when I had more time I would knock on his door and see if he wanted to have a cup of tea and share his story with me. To learn what made him laugh and how he came to be here. What it was like for him in the Old Country. I think older immigrants are a wealth of story, courage, and inspiration. But opportunities pass and I missed it. I’ve been here 3 years and never took the time to know this interesting human who lived one door away from me.
The last time I saw him he was heading out in the later afternoon with fishing pole in hand. “I go fishing.” He came back empty handed, but with a grin and a fish story of the little ones he threw back.
Rest well kind soul. I will miss the you I never knew.
