The Lonely House
Many years ago, down the next block from our street, lived an old man. He lived all alone in his old tired home. Both he and his house looked sad, forlorn and forgotten. Sometimes as I passed his house, as I headed to the Turnpike, I would notice him peering out of his living room window. I would slow my pace and wave. I surmised that he was in need of some shopping. He would hurry to the front door and ask if I would mind running an errand for him. Sometimes he needed his mail to be posted, at other times he needed a bit of shopping. I was quite happy to oblige. It was never something big; perhaps some milk or bread or maybe eggs. I did not know much about him. I had heard that his wife had passed away quite a few years ago, way before we moved into the neighbourhood. It seemed that they were never blessed with children. No one visited him and he did not visit anyone. He lived a very hermit like existence. I never knew his name and he did not know mine.
Time passed and I still ran errands for him on occasion. The years passed by and one winter he passed away. No one knew which day or under what circumstances he had died. Since it was cold, it was normal for everyone to hunker down and snuggle in their homes. For that reason no one ever noticed he was no longer peering out of his window. No one knew he was gone until a deathlike odour began to permeate the air as they passed by the house. It was then that they realized that they had they had not seen nor heard from him in quite a while. Even though he was not close to anyone, the neighbourhood felt a sadness that he was gone. They wondered if he ever yearned or had the need for the warmth of a friendly voice and for companionship. What makes a person isolate like that from others? We all shook our heads sadly, but after a brief moment of regret, we all went about with our business and lives. We really did not know too much about him. Eventually the house was sold and remodeled. In fact the house changed hands several times, for some reason.
Years passed by. The house was resold once more. The new family was comprised of a mother, father, a daughter and a granny who moved into the house. Since the old man died, I had no interest in the house. By now I had lost my dear husband and had become a widow. In my grief, I lost the spring in my step. I lost of joy of life. My grandson had just moved to New York after college. He was scheduled to go to NYU University for his Phd. in fall. Temporarily he was staying with me. His presence in the house pepped me up. My love for my darling boy made my heart sing once more.
On the Turnpike there was a popular Israeli takeout eatery that served, amongst other things, schwarma sandwiches. My grandson is addicted to schwarma. One lunch time that summer, he decided to walk down to the Turnpike and purchase a schwarma wrap. As he walked back home twenty minutes later he noticed great police activity down our street. Curious, he stopped and asked what was going on. He was told that a teen girl had been murdered! A murder in our neighbourhood? Impossible! Such a thing had never happened in the forty something years that I lived here! It is a quiet and staid area. The phones began to buzz. Everyone was curious as to what had happened. There are two people on our block who would definitely know what’s going on. They were called and we were was soon, informed that indeed there had been no murder but a tragedy! In the house where the old man had once lived, a young girl that now lived with her family. The young girl had a cat that she loved. The morning in question, the cat had dashed out of the house. The girl went in search for it. The parents were at work and Granny had dozed off, as some old people do. It was hours before anyone realized that the girl had not returned. They called and called her name, but there was no answer. They searched all over the house. Finally they called the police. Sadly the police soon discovered her body in the garden. Her cat was nestled against her, mewing piteously. It seemed she had suffered a massive heart attack. A young girl with congestive heart disease? Who would have imagined such a thing? All the parents in the vicinity hugged their children protectively to themselves and thanked the heavens above that they their children were alive and well.
We did not know the family, we had never met them. Still, I felt emotional and sad. I did not want to intrude on their grief, but I could not help but feel for the loss of their child. Then my mind wandered to that poor lonely man who died inside that very same house. He had died all alone with no one who grieved for him nor cared or missed him. My sense of sadness increased. I comforted myself in thinking of his wife, his parents and perhaps siblings having greeted when he arrived to wherever we go from here. He was no longer alone or sad. He had people who loved him once more.
I shake my head and say to myself, “What nonsense is this? You don’t even know these people?” I hear Peter chuckling to himself. “There you go again, Stella! Where do you come up with these thoughts and ideas?”
Where indeed. I raise my head and look out of the window. It is dusk. The sun has set. My radio is playing soothing classical music. It fits my pensive mood.