CXVIII. La Muerte de Vicente

Vicente's Death

It's been over two months since my last post, and I've been wondering lately what has held me back from writing another. Maybe it's been the absence of an accounting of the death of our block's beloved mainstay--always friendly and observant Vicente--who died in mid-spring.

I first introduced myself to Vicente a few months after we moved to this block, or cuadra, now over two years ago. Nearly every time I walked up the street this grandfatherly man would be sitting on a stool in front of his daughter's zapatería, which was a combination shoe and notions store at the front of their casa.

He left me some vivid images of our shared greetings: "Tomás". "Señor Vicente, como está"? "Bien, bien, gracias. Y usted"? "Muy bien". "Bueno, que tenga un buen día Tomás". "Igual. Gracias, Señor Vicente". Simple as it was, this exchange always left me uplifted and better able to face the world with a smile.

Sometimes I would stop and we would exchange a few more pleasantries. One of the last times we spoke he told me about the fall he'd taken the previous year that had broken his hip and put an end to his daily constitutional, which was a cane-assisted walk down to mid-block and then back to his storefront perch. He had me feel his forearm which I could encircle with thumb and middle finger--it was just bone encased in wrinkled skin.

With winter's chill, Vicente's presence on the sidewalk became much less frequent. When he did appear on a sunny morning he'd be bundled up with a wool scarf around his neck and a colorful and whimsical knit hat on his head. During this period nearly every time we heard a death knell from the nearby church, I'd hurry to the gate and look up the street to see if any neighbors were gathered around his puerta. One day they were, and a funeraria's tent was being put up in the street across from the house, a dozen or so folding chairs placed on cobbles for those who would come to pay their respects at his coffin in the living room. I was one of the mourners.

With flowers in hand I also followed his casket through the cobblestone streets from the church, down Parroquia and Hidalgo to Seis Esquinas where we joined Ocampo on the way to the panteon for his burial. It was unaccustomedly hot. I saw amigas passing a bottle of water around. Parasols were held against the sun. About sixty of us shuffled behind the hearse; he'd been a popular man.

During the nine days of mourning that followed his burial my wife and I brought a traditional donation of food for his daughter, who looks to be in her sixties. She told me that her father had quit eating a week before his death, that during those final days all his children, grandchildren and their offspring had visited to say goodbye. It had been a fittingly affectionate and respectful leave-taking for this friendly, gentle man.