“2 Thoughts” is an ongoing series on Natetheworld where a special guest and I respond to a published story in the manner of our choosing. Enjoy! 

What They Said & What Will Say by Nathan Box  

Slipping deeper into a sense of loss, I watched as our country spiraled into chaos caused by a global pandemic. That pandemic denied me a hike of the Pacific Crest Trail. It was pitting me against an unfavorable job market. It was keeping me from making Seattle my home once again. My heart felt broken, and I was unsure about my ability to handle anything else. Then, on May 16th, 2020, my phone rang. It was a phone call I had been fearing for some time.  

Hearing the sadness in my mom’s voice, I knew something was wrong. As she struggled to string together words that must have felt impossible to say aloud, my mind raced furiously. I could hear the tears in her eyes. The audible shakiness is something I will never forget. With all the strength she could muster, she told me, “Eldon passed away a few hours ago.”  

The axis of my world shifted. Unsure of what to do next, I helplessly gravitated toward a need to know what happened. As best as she could, she recounted the morning’s events. We then discussed what would happen next. We closed the call after discussing the arrangements that needed to be made. I told her I would be there as soon as possible and hung up the phone.  

Of all the questions I have asked my mother about that day and everything that led up to it, I have never asked her about the last words they said to each other. Watching the video that is the impetus for this essay, I am naturally curious, but refuse to ask.  

They probably didn't have a well-scripted conversation for their last words to each other. I doubt there were grand exclamations of love. I do not think apologies hung thick in the air. What went unsaid, but deeply understood, was probably much more profound. That moment and the moments before my father passed belong to them. I dare not intrude.  

Staring across the queen-sized bed, I watch my partner sleep. He does not realize he is being studied at this moment. With this story fresh in my mind, I drift to thoughts of our eventual end. These thoughts are not morbid. I think about who will pass first. How will the other person cope with that loss and life alone? What will our last words to each other be? Will it afford us an opportunity to express our love, or will suddenness rob us of a meaningful goodbye? Pondering this, I fall back asleep.  

When I wake, a sudden realization greets me and the new day. There is no reason to wait. There is no need for a script. There is no need to worry about time robbing me of the perfect words to encapsulate our long and storied relationship. Now, and in every moment moving forward, I can choose to show Brandon how much he means to me. I can start crafting a love that Brandon will understand long after my time on this planet is finished through my service, action, and words. Our last moment together does not have to be perfect. With minutes, hours, days, and years to count before that date with destiny, the greatest love I have ever known can live on without questioning what he has meant to me.  

Be good to each other,  

Nathan  

The Last Conversation by S. Jensen

I once wrote a poem called “A Slow Death is for the Selfish”, as my grandfather was fighting lung cancer. I stand by its sentiment, even as I’m facing the second anniversary of my mother’s sudden death. It feels impossible to watch a story of death or grief and not think of my own losses–it’s such a universal experience, processed individually. Watching Isidore and Sarah dancing their beautiful, domestic dance across six decades could only end in heartbreak.

Being left with one parent where you’d always had two is confounding. Every relationship has a language all its own that no one else speaks. The healthiest and most fun also has a deep culture unto its own, and even their child is only partially welcome. When half the team is gone, there’s no one left to translate. I don’t know how this feels–not yet–but it’s my new biggest fear and it can be suffocating. 

Isidore and Sarah’s last conversation is the illustration of how he cared for her in sickness and likely in health. We see how he needed to keep caring for her even when he wasn’t physically there anymore. As someone’s adult child, I hope finding this message gives Robert peace. There’s always going to be a phone call not returned, a visit not made quickly enough, and something left unsaid. I’ve spent most of my life trying to do all things for all people and they still get sick, they still die. We’re simply not that powerful. 

What is that powerful, is love. That’s it. Loving people while we have them, however we can. Maybe by giving them patience and peace of mind, if we can’t give them our presence.

 s.jensen

8/25/23