Lee Lytton - Sarita Texas

When I was 8 in Buenos Aires, my mother took me to a neighbour’s funeral (their son).The young man had crashed his bike into a passing train at an unbarriered crossing. It was an open coffin wake. His face was all bandaged. I believe that my mother was on a path to educate her son (me). Shortly after, another neighbour won the lottery. I then arrived at the conclusion that only neighbours died or won the lottery.

When one is 82 (me), death is statistically around the corner. Using Jorge Luís Borges logic I think of one of his poems where he asks himself, “Is this the last time this mirror will reflect my face?”

Something has occurred in the last few weeks that has affected my consideration of what death is. A friend I have had since 2008 has decided to have MAiD (Medical Assistance in Dying) sometime this month. Because my friend knew I was not going to do any persuasion I was invited to my friend’s apartment.  We chatted for 2 hours. All I can say is that my experience was unique.

Another good friend, architect Abraham Rogatnick, pulled the plug on his prostate cancer and told me he had about 2 months to live in 2007. I went to visit him at the hospital, and because we were such good friends, I read to him Ambrose Bierce’s Parker Adderson, Philosopher. Rogatnick told me that if at that moment  pointed a gun at him he could not predict how he would react.

Abraham Rogatnick & Parker Adderson, Philosopher 

Of death I am constantly thinking about Rosemary and I think, “Why her and not me?”

It is only in the last few days that I had a strange thought. I am thinking more of people who are dead than those who are alive. So many more people I have known are all gone.Those who are my friends now are mostly knew ones.

In my nighttime thinking, the image of my high school friend, Lee Lytton who was born in Sarita, Texas, keeps creeping up. When Rosemary, our 2 granddaughters and I went in our Chevrolet Malibu in 2017 to South Texas, Lytton was a lovely host in his hometown.

Why is this dead man in my thoughts? I believe that one of the reasons is that many of my memories of people who are gone is from portraits that I took of them. In those portraits, they are alive. My Rosemary is alive all over my Kitsilano home. I gaze at her and think. “She was alive when I took that portrait.”

I find it paradoxical that these dead people seem to be more alive in my memory than the live ones.