My neighbor died last week. He was in his late 80s. He was was old new England Yankee who took over his father's medical practice after graduating from Harvard, in an era when local boys from my hometown an hour south of Boston were admitted regularly, and getting into Harvard depended more on family and social ties and not an unpredictable mix of increasing exotic qualities. He was a deeply elegant man and a passionate sailor who owned salmon colored cat boat with a gaff rig anchored in the cove outside the backyard of the beachfront home my father built in 1962 for fifty thousand dollars.
In my mind a summer morning begins with the sun glittering across the cove, and the mast of the boat reflecting across the water like a long line casting for fish. He would appear later in the morning with his stately gait and his understated elegance and grace. There might be the pleasure of a short chat which always left me a bit more optimistic, about everything . I have a picture of the boat at sunrise in my office. Its a touchstone.
He would never die, I thought, somewhat foolishly. But last Spring his bone marrow decided it had made enough red cells for one lifetime, and he became transfusion dependent. Subsequently, a pericardial effusion developed and he declined to have it drained. In the words of his wife of 50+ years, "He dressed every day and did his usual routine as best he could. I am happy to report that he died himself."
The boat's been sold. This Sping it will no longer grace the cove. There will just be the endless expense of ocean, and a hole inside my heart that will not likely fill in
Eli
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