A Story by Cory Kutschker
Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine,
et lux perpetua luceat eis.
Te decet hymnus, Deus, in Sion,
et tibi reddetur votum in Jerusalem.
Exaudi orationem meam,
ad te omnis care veniet.
Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine,
et lux perpetua luceat eis.
In the deepened grey I waited as each drop spat upon my face. The chimes of the cathedral were resounding and floating. They echoed against the gloom overhanging and the dirt that scraped underneath my soles. And each chime drew attention to an almost lapse in the clouds. The pall bearers came in slow procession, each bearing a calm bleak expression until they slowly but eventually lowered the coffin into the grave. A man died at 427 Renfrew street last week. While this was hardly news to the Glory Acres Senior Care Centre, I cannot but feel entirely affected by this individual. Every day I had noticed him sitting at the window sombre. I had served him on occasion and could well remember how he took his coffee or rather earl grey tea now as he much preferred it to the "rancid treachery" as he had once called our coffee. He spoke to almost no one except those who were assigned to him. On occasion I could tell that he was observing me but kept myself professional as the procedures were generally expected for male orderlies in the employ of the centre.
I did not know the man well, until he called me to his bedside this evening. I knocked three times before his frail voice ushered me in. “Come in, come in!” This was muffled before a fit of coughing exuded through the opening door. He ushered me closer to the bed with a weak gesture of his hand, mottled and shriveled. I entered, closed the door and sat down on a chair that was at his bedside. "Can you hear it?" He asked me. His eyes were closed in repose yet his brows white in age were turned upwards as though in a sort of melancholy. "The music?" I shook my head slowly and he sighed. "It's almost morose, thunderous and growing in crescendo." His hands rose slowly as he began a slow rhythmic conduction in a most serene and small, graceful movements. "There is a cello I am quite certain and perhaps a double bass and maybe even an organ. These are alternating with the strings. And there behind it is a bassoon and there followed soon by basset horn. Are you quite certain that you can't hear it?" "Yes sir." I replied, greatly speculating to some reach of senility in this man. "What is your name?" He asked. A question that I was not at all unfamiliar with. "Christopher." "Ah, I had a brother by that name, young Christopher!" He seemed to perk up and sat more upright. "Do you have any siblings young man?" "One" I said quietly. "One" he repeated. "A sister or brother?" He queried more incisively. "A brother." "Ah! You must hold onto that relationship young man! They are a tie to remember better times oft! Alas my memory is greatly degraded and much of the good memories are distant and only echoing now. And all my mistakes remain and in bold ink too." He wagged his finger naggingly. I chuckled lightly at this. "Do you know how old I am?" He asked, noting my lightness. "I should guess 75?" "Higher" "78?" "You take baby steps boy" "90?" "Yes!" "I was born 1925 in Ingolstadt, Germany to Marcus and Maria Meyer. And I was given the Christian name of Otto as my father was generally quite wishful that I would follow a similar path as he did in being a prominent landlord and held a great deal of property. But my goals were elsewhere in the world of musicians. For it was upon one Sunday morning in the Lutheran church at the age of 7 when I heard the all boys choir. I was in such strong rapture. I remember having a quick look up to my father's face, who had his eyes closed. So I, in childish mimicry, closed my eyes as well. And I can not describe the majesty of sound that were resonating that day. The music, oh the music! it touched me so. The sweeping melodies sometimes in homophony sometimes in polyphony but always carefully arranged so that it melted and forged together as what sweet scents in the bakery must do or perhaps carefully arranged colors arranged on the canvas by an individual such as Monet, Renoir, or Vincent Van Gogh! I told my father that this was what I wanted to do for my life's pursuit. And despite his strong contest, my mother softened him, or at least that is what I suspected. My mother had winked at me the next morning as my father told me that he had arranged for me to go to a well respected school when I was of proper age but I was to be extraordinarily disciplined in all matter of academics and home propriety if this were to be my chosen direction." He stopped and coughed a little and motioned for a drink of the cold water that was on his bedside table.
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