I saw a grown man cry this morning.  An 85 year old man.  I hugged his neck and his sobs broke the sound of silence.  His shoulders hunched over- a look of numb and deep sadness on his face. That sound of an old man crying has echoed in my heart all day.  Our neighbor, the one who grew up in the house we renovated and became part of our New England family 9 years ago died in the middle of the night.  She who had every essence of feisty and fierce-and she who was an in your face let’s get on with it kind of woman.  She who had  just one beer a day to make the day better-she who became part of our lives, she who knitted, sewed, babysat, baked and told it like it was.  She who had just turned 82 died after a week of complications due to a ruptured spleen that none of us knew about until it was too late to do anything about it.

She who said to the nurse,” Well I am shitt’in blood, how doya think I am doin?” ,when the nurse entered the beige colored room and asked in the third person,  “How are we  doing today?”

Only two days ago.

They waited to tell the old man until the morning-since he  had already left the hospital for the night.  Why wake him in the middle of the night?

We were there shortly after for support. For comfort.  For a while.

He sat there in the chair-in the kitchen but facing the small living room. I walked over to him, hugged him and he cried.  He let lose and cried.

The sound of an old man crying.