The Old Man and Death
Some human experience is so big it defies writing—the paradox of reining in with words verities that rely on human ignorance, in this age of science, for their own permanence. That is, how can one describe death in life?
The Old Man and Death
I thought a gunshot would resound,
shake us all. I thought it would pierce,
like a pin through cloth.
If the bullet is gone, where’s
the chipped terrazzo?
the frayed wound in the sofa?
the smoke?
I thought a gunshot would resound.
What mute emotion never did,
I thought the meeting of hammer
and shank would pronounce,
and that would be the point.
But I hope it wasn’t the point,
because it did not shatter daylight—
a dull knock, like a dropped shoe,
heard by one neighbor cooking
dinner, does not describe a thing
of one’s suffering. Not a thing.
Technically, I think it was muffled,
barrel stuffed with his thin skin;
the noise, instead of spraying in-
to the air, reverberated through
the butt, through his elbow,
before everything hit the floor.
But to have a grandfather
who shot himself in the head
will crack and echo. To have
that legacy of men maintaining
control until the very end
will raze my thoughts and endure.
It will resound, a genetic fact.
“The old man and death. One may well ask why, aside from the demands of religion, it is more praiseworthy for a man grown old, who feels his powers decrease, to await his slow exhaustion and disintegration, rather than to put a term to his life with complete consciousness? In this case, suicide is quite natural, obvious, and should by rights awaken respect for the triumph of reason.”
-F. Nietzche. Human, All Too Human. Aphorism 80.
Evelio Pérez, December 27, 1915 - February 18, 2003.
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