The sunset shrouded the bay in a mantle of gold. Ben scanned the horizon from his second-floor balcony and then leaned forward in his chair to gain a clearer view of his front yard. The jacaranda trees were in full bloom, their lush petals a purple canopy for anyone strolling up the path to his house.
As the maid finished her daily chores, she took special care to turn on certain lamps that would create the subtle tones Ben liked best. Then, she placed a glass of iced tea on the table next to him and adjusted his jacket collar. Once she was sure he was comfortable, she left him alone with his thoughts and headed home to yet another round of household tasks.
Ben was used to being alone. At 85 years old, he had outlasted all of his best friends and siblings. His wife had left him years ago and then passed away herself. They had never had children. Now he too was ready. Death seemed like just another uncertainty. He had watched nearly everyone he knew pass away unhappily. Most of the ones still around were empty husks waiting to blow away to who knew where. Ben felt disappointed for not having accomplished more, and it hurt that no one cared.
Now in the darkness of early evening, the soft balcony lights gave form to the vase of red roses sitting on the table and the jasmine vines woven into the surrounding trellises. This is what Ben would miss the most — the rich, decadent beauty of the natural world and each sweet or torrid sensation it delivered. Yes, he still had his house, memories, and minor diversions, but what were they compared to that endless and unpredictable array of urgent sensory appeals that always felt so familiar and transient? He lifted the glass of iced tea to his lips, nibbled on a cube that had shrunk to the size of a nickle, and reveled in the tingling chill that slowly numbed his tongue.
The buzzing of his cell phone broke the silence. He timidly hoped the person on the other end would be someone ready to share at least some small conversation, as incidental as it might be, something intimate and kind. He answered the phone, only to hear a recorded message from his service provider asking him if he was interested in an upgrade. He wondered if this would be the last voice he heard.
He gazed skyward and focused on the brightest stars in Ursa Major. He had given up on the notion of a soul years ago, but his mind couldn’t let go of the parade of people he had hurt. He considered all the different jobs he had held over the years, as if doing so might validate some pattern of worthwhile behavior. Nothing added up. Nothing made sense. He reimagined the night his wife left him. This time, instead of walking silently out the door, she turned to him and said, “Forgive yourself, Ben. There’s nothing to remember and nothing to forget. You have to forgive everyone else, too, you know. There’s still time.”
He wiped the sweat from his eyes with his trembling hand. “There isn’t time,” he whispered.
In the morning, he greeted his maid gently. He wanted to finish with a graceful bow, a last act of decency. She agreed to help him make his final arrangements, and he wrote her into his will for her years of quiet, loyal service. She kissed him gently on the forehead and walked softly from his home, knowing she would never see him again. He turned inward, stared at the jacaranda trees, and released himself from everything.
