Syd Softens

“How’re you doing Syd?”

“What a stupid question! I’m sick.  I’m dying. That’s how I’m doing.”

As my weekly visits passed, Syd’s scorn turned into a grudging curiosity.  Her sneer didn’t quite become a smile, but it softened.

She had a clean warm bed and was surrounded by people who did her bidding. Some of them even liked her. With the others she swore, bitched, and insulted until they left her alone.

I told her I was a photographer, and she insisted on sitting for a portrait. Slowly she collected a gallery of portraits taped to the wall opposite her bed. They mirrored her toughness as she became too weak to be tough.

Slowly, slowly surrounded by love, she started to relax. Death was coming closer. She started to like the photos that showed her softer side. The sneer disappeared.  As her breath grew fainter, she began to greet people with only a smile. Then she would greet you just by being there and breathing gently.  She used to wear an old Timex watch without its wristband on a string around her neck. The watch had stopped and I rewound it for her. I knew the time was no longer important; it was just a simple favor.

As her hair began to fall out, Syd started to look like a Buddha. She had finally taken off her tough-as-nails cloak. And then she left us quietly, like a breeze, with no complaint. It seemed as if I had known her for years, but had simply crowded a lot of living into a few months of dying.