Ita est!

(Old Man in Sorrow (On the Threshold of Eternity) is
emblematic of Vincent van Gogh’s suffering in his
final months in Auvers-sur-Oise.)

I see him every day. He has his usual walk on his crunches. Then he sits on the concrete bench in front of his tenement. He sits there for hours and hours until his wife takes him up to their flat.

I’ve known that man for all my life. He and his wife are my neighbors. She used to be quite neurotic when we played under her window. She threw jars on us… However my grandmother has been her friend. That woman was her hairdresser for a long, and now she is often visiting our house. I didn’t know that weak and quiet man was her husband. He seemed totally opposite to her temperament, although I’ve never had any contact with him.

Now when I stare out through the window next to the screen, I see him standing alone with his crunches on one side. I’ve heard he had a car accident last year, which obviously made him much weaker than before.

He reminds me of my late grandfather. He was that weak in his last weeks… and I visited him only about five times for two months. Grandpa always told me to consider school and studying first, but he was so happy when I was with him. In his last weeks he felt so hopeless, he didn’t even want to speak, but he seemed to be pleased when I told him of every little or slightly bigger success I had. That is why I tried to present everything good I’d done. He was the first witness of my success with jumping – I finally reached the ceiling after many years believing that I won’t be able to do it. I was so pleased that I used every opportunity to jump in my grandparents’ flat. The last time I went to visit him, before I looked at him, I casted a glance on the ceiling.

“Keep away from the TV antenna” he murmured. I smiled and didn’t jump.

I can’t watch my neighbor waiting his end like that. I must not switch on Damien Rice and watch the sunset walking in the town this time . I don’t want to do it again. I won’t be able to approach him either. I am so wretched. I write essays about changing and being able to be at ease among unfamiliar people and in different situations. Still, I am not capable of going to talk to an old desperate man. I don’t know what to tell him, I don’t know how to act. I am just going to stay here and timorously watch.