George Ritzkin phoned. “Florence, Terry is dying. He’s in the hospice. You have to go say goodbye to him.” “I can’t.” (Terry is young. I am much older.) “You have to.” “I can’t, it will break my heart.” “Go.”
The next day I walked into a crowded welcoming room. A man got up from the bedside for me to sit down. Was this dear young Terry behind the old mask lying there? “Terry,” I said. “It’s Florence.” I put his hand in mine. “Florence,” he murmured. “Terry, I love you. I’ve always loved you. I love you very much.” His hand responded.
I reminisced with him about book activities we shared. I talked about the annual Book Appraisal panel at the Newberry and how we deliberately goaded each other for our own entertainment. “The Dumpster” was your mantra and of course you were right, they were mostly terrible books. The lady with the poetry book? Nothing poetry, nothing poets, nothing publisher and she said it was her aunt’s only book and her aunt said it was precious. “Dumpster,” you said. So I said, “No it is a precious book. Her aunt got it as a love gift and you can’t measure sentiment. If you loved your aunt, treasure her gift.” I reminded Terry he sat with his arms crossed looking like he could vomit. “And the Pinocchio? You said this was one of hundreds of printing of Pinocchio, nothing distinguishing about it. And I was truly outraged because I personally own a copy of that edition and I lovingly showed why it was so special.” Terry’s face has softened, our hands embracing. “And I said (was it a Willa Cather?) this is the only book ever published in orange vellum. And you proceed to list early classics I never even heard of that were published in orange vellum.” Terry was responding. Finally I said goodbye and kissed his cheek. “Florence,” he murmured.
The next day I thought I had given Terry a few moments of pleasure. I will go again. I return to the hospice. I stand at the door of an empty room. Staring at an empty bed with the bedding pulled taut. I stand staring. A nurse comes over. “Did Terry go home?” I ask stupidly. “Terry died last night.” I start to howl.
--- Florence
Oh, Florence, I am bent in tears of sorrow for this loss. There is nothing I can think to say but that I am so sorry. How good is was that you could visit for awhile with him and, yes, I do think a few moments of pleasure were given, and what Terry took with him in the end.
Peace.
Posted by: Penny | May 27, 2011 at 08:40 AM