The Dying Man

Six houses up the street a man lay dying. He had seemed like an ordinary man of that time, older, first-generation, working class, married with grown children, on the usual speaking terms with the other adults on the street. But now he lay on his deathbed, and all that had formerly served as his identity was now irrelevant. Death then was more or less a community event; to the child I was then it seemed a very lengthy process, but I suppose it may not have been a very long time at all, any more than my considering him a very old man, when he may have been only 60 or so. It was early enough that I hadn't yet started to fear my parents' deaths, and since the dying neighbor was a generation older, I still felt secure. At any rate, the village doctor would make his house calls, visiting more and more often as his patient weakened. The neighbor women would help, sitting watch with the patient's wife, and assisting the doctor when needed. I remember one of the neighbor women coming to report the man's daily status to my mother, who, busy caring for three young children, was not expected yet to tender bedside duty. I never paid much attention to what was said, until the day the man died. The woman told my mother that when he realized he was dying, he cursed all the living, and swore he wanted the world to end. Having eavesdropped on the conversation, I couldn't ask any questions, so I came to the conclusion that it was because he was so old, or because he'd come from another country. I never did find satisfactory answer, but I think I'm getting closer.