And the World Goes On

I went over to my late friend Norman's condo today, to check his mail and to see if the building manager had, as he said he was going to, sent someone to pick up Norm's plants. I spent about an hour and a half, mostly cleaning out his utility closet. It is astonishing what one accumulates over the years. Drop-cloths and scrapers and dozens of assorted tools whose purpose is utterly unknown.

The living room is a jumble of boxes full of 39 years' worth of...things/possessions, scattered over and on chairs and tables and armoires and hutches and... I have been putting off calling someone to come take it all away (it pains me that more than $10,000 worth of furniture and things/possessions have no real resale value. I sold a number of things, but, still...).

And when it is all gone, the condo will be...empty rooms with a magnificent view of the City of Chicago spread out to the south, and the waters of Lake Michigan just below and slightly to the left. And Norm will be gone. Really gone. And the world goes on.

What brought this home to me so strongly was finding on top of a dresser--how it got there I do not know, since I'd not seen it before in all the times I'd been there and going through everything he had--a bound booklet of photographs. (If you're "of a certain age" you'll remember them; 8 or 10 raggedy-edged photographs stapled together in a thin but stiff-cardboard cover. This one says "Memories last longer with Snapshots.") And the world goes on.

I opened it to find photos of Norm in what I assume was the back yard of his parents' home in Appleton, Wisconsin, looking mildly self-conscious in his high school graduation cap and gown. He's staring at the photographer with an expression that, across so many years, clearly asks: "Now what?" One of the shots is of him in a suit, one hand hooked into a pocket and the shadow of the photographer at his feet. He was very handsome, and my heart aches for him and for everything that lay ahead of him, ending in a small, polished wooden box containing his ashes. And the world goes on.

So many years, filled with so many experiences and so many heartaches and so much happiness. And the world goes on.

I was one of the many people who were part of his life, and though most came and went, I never really went, and was lucky enough to be part of it for not quite 52 years. For the first six of those years, we were partners, and I am infinitely grateful that despite the trauma of the end of that phase of our relationship, we, despite a rather long and awkward period, were able to remain friends, and I hope that fact meant as much to him as it did to me. We were partners, and then we weren't. And the world goes on.

It happens to each of us, eventually, and it is neither good nor bad, but simply the way it is. So Norm is gone, and his condo will soon be totally empty of every trace of him.

And the world goes on.

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