The man who did not die
No one attended the funeral. He stood there alone, surrounded by the scent of spring flowers, his face warmed by the first sunlight after the long winter. Had it not been a farewell to the dead, had the endless silence befitting cemeteries not settled over the land, perhaps the instinct of his youth – the deep, urgent discovery of life – would have risen within him once more, pulling him toward unknown places. Not even the priest’s divine words could break open in him the trembling of grief and passing.
What remained was a grave covered with soil, without wreaths. He gave his respect, he wished to bid farewell, and yet he did not leave the resting place with the solemn thought of life and death’s eternal cycle, but with a sense of freshness, of renewal.
At another time, perhaps he would have boarded the bus, as he always did, but his old legs carried him instead through the park beside the cemetery, toward the city center. Along the cobbled pavement, walking stick in hand, he strode with surprising vigor, as once he had as a boy, when automobiles were still considered novelties and horse-drawn carts rattled more often through the streets than the puffing machines. On that day, he even felt he might still have managed to ride a bicycle the whole way, or so it seemed.
No one looked at him. People, dressed in fine clothes, hurried about their errands; a little boy in a worn jacket pushed a bread cart, while another, in the middle of the street, shouted to sell the freshly printed newspapers. He grew tired nonetheless and sat down on a bench of ornate wrought iron in front of a tall-walled building. He placed his hat beside him, and with the frayed handkerchief from his suit pocket, wiped the sweat that trickled onto his wrinkled face and beard from the walk.
For such heat to descend upon the little town so early in spring was something new. An empty cemetery at a funeral, he recalled for a brief moment, before once again being seized by the sensation of youth. The fragrance of freshly baked rolls drifting from the bakery across the street lured him in with the promise of simple satisfaction. The enormous woman behind the counter did not greet him, though the bell above the door had loudly announced his arrival. He took three large buns from a wooden bowl, their warmth sparking a hungry pang in his stomach.
At the counter, he tried to pay, but the baker’s wife kept working, kneading dough with such determination as if she had to feed an entire city. The old man greeted her in vain, pleaded to be allowed to pay; no one answered. At last, leaving the proper coins on the counter, he walked out with his bread. I was once this busy, too, he thought. Into his toothless mouth, he placed small bites as he strolled down the main street.
It felt awkward to tear the roll with one hand while holding his cane with the other, so he sat on another bench. He watched the pigeons searching the street for scraps. Peaceful creatures, unbothered by the rushing people, only shifting a little when they had to. He scattered a few crumbs before him. Perhaps they too long for this treat, he thought, yet the birds kept pecking among the cobblestones that seemed bare. He tossed them a larger piece, nearly littering, but they did not pick it up either. No matter. Life is beautiful today.
From his jacket pocket, he took his gold watch. Half past eight. That had been the time of the funeral. He listened, but the old timepiece did not tick. Well then. For fifty years, I never once had to set this contraption. I’ll take it to the watchmaker next week. For now, I’m in no hurry.
In his polished leather shoes, he continued along, tapping the stones, heading straight toward his house at the edge of town. Suddenly, he stumbled, fell hard in front of a shop, scraping his knee. He cried out loudly, clutching a railing with trembling hands. The passersby paid him no mind, nearly stepping over him, as though he were not even in the way. Small bloodstains appeared on his fine trousers. Struggling to his feet, he brushed the dust from his hands and rubbed the street’s filth from his aching knees. I should have taken the bus. I’m no longer so young to be running about like this.
He paused at the shop window, peering at his reflection. It seemed someone was watching him from behind the glass: a boy in shabby clothes. The boy waved, and he returned the gesture. His aged smile was mirrored perfectly by the boy’s youthful grin.
His house looked different from when he had left it: freshly painted, flowers planted in the garden where once he had tended small evergreens. His key still turned in the lock, yet the home where he had lived his entire life now seemed strange, carrying the smell of another household. In the mirror beneath the hat rack, he saw not himself but a young boy he did not know. Stunned, he touched his beard, but the reflection showed a clean-shaven face. The calm that had followed him all day twisted into a question he could not answer, like when one cannot recall a familiar name. Empty-headed, breath held, he stared at the reflection, which suddenly shifted into a spring meadow of old, where he ran about flying a kite. His cane fell to the ground, his hat beside it. The meadow, the fresh sunshine radiating from that image, flowed through him as it had in the cemetery. He watched long as the child ran, laughing unrestrained, across the hillside, the waving grass following each of his steps like the wind itself.
He sank into the vision, just as he had into the play of pigeons, into the noise of bustling streets.
I was insignificant. And so I remained.