Aching Bodies and Aging Souls

By Tashreet Kaur

Flesh flushed with a tan and skin marks. A limp beckoned him to rest. His hair faded of all colour and glistened white. The stained shirt and absence of a jumper in the cold hinted at the missing care he desired. The care of the woman who was taken by the death that knocks at his door. An old lonely man was all he ever was now. It did not seem to matter who he betrothed and conceived.

My neighbour was noticed like this by my family. With his broken English thickened with an Italian accent, there was nothing much to ever say. Except when cartons of fruits appeared at the foot of our garages every blue moon. Soon they turned into cabbages or even carrots and potatoes. They were always plump and fresh, though their source was unknown. Until one evening, I saw him struggle up the driveway and carefully place it down before returning to his home. I saw a man who was threatened by the harsh winds of reality still bothering to warm the hearts of others.

So I did what felt right. What I knew best. I stood in the kitchen, a mess bound to the island. My feet ached because of the hours of labour yet the overwhelming excitement subdued it. Soon I had three desserts in my hands and I rattled at his door. He looked at me confused and I gleamed a smile. I passed them to him and pronounced him a happy holiday. He smiled but shook his head. He reached for the tray, ever so grateful.  “No holiday for me, only hard work,” I struggled to decipher his thick accent. I shook my head in condolence. “That’s not right, you should rest, no?” I replied confused. His body was deteriorating and his soul was fading. Why would he not be bound to a day of ease? “In 100 years you will remember me for my hard work and I will after death thank your beautiful, kind soul.” He stated ever so casually. I nodded and we muttered a bit of small talk. Eventually I made it home.

By Tashreet Kaur