Hey Ken

“Hey Ken”

“Hi Charles”

“How’s it going?” He looked at me with a wry expression that said more than words.

“I’ll make you an omelette, the usual.”

“Sure” he replied, “But I don’t have much appetite and it needs to be very soft. I don’t swallow very well.” “Okay” I replied and went to the kitchen to lay out my cooking utensils, like a surgeon preparing for an operation.

“Hi Charles” she said. “Thanks for coming over. Before you make eggs, can you make coffee? I need coffee and I haven’t had any this morning.”

‘Me neither, I’m gasping” I said with a smile, even though I’d already had a cup at home.

Coffee and eggs prepared, I took it all into the living room. Ken’s cup was a large earthenware mug, but all he wanted was a taste, so there wasn’t much more than a splash at the bottom of his mug.

He moved his legs from off the couch where he’d had them resting, and sat in his chair like a little boy waiting for mom or dad to bring breakfast. I put his one-egg omelette on his tray along with a fork and napkin.

He poked at it, took a couple very small bites, put his fork down and just looked at it. He looked at me, again with an expression that seemed to say ‘No use, it’s not happening”.

As we sat there, just being with each other, the memory of a trip to the pharmacy with him, and the epic burger and fries lunch we treated ourselves to wafted across my memory.

He said to me that he had refused further treatments and was no longer receiving them. “After I refused the radiation and chemo and walked away from the hospital, I walked away from the king of clubs.”

“Are you more present?” I asked.

He didn’t answer. Not because he couldn’t or didn’t want to. It was as if the question was irrelevant.

He looked at me. What was looking at me was undiluted presence gazing at me through his eyes. In that moment I was the lover beholding the Beloved, his sweet soul entwined with mine.

Goodbye Ken. Thank you for the life you lived and allowing me to be a part of the beautiful fairy tale of your death.

AT the last, tenderly,

From the walls of the powerful, fortress'd house,

From the clasp of the knitted locks—from the keep of the well-closed

doors,

Let me be wafted.

Let me glide noiselessly forth;

With the key of softness unlock the locks—with a whisper,

Set open the doors, O Soul!

Tenderly! be not impatient!

(Strong is your hold, O mortal flesh!

Strong is your hold, O love.)

~ Walt Whitman

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