We live in a community where the average age is north of sixty.  Way north. Joseph, whose apartment is above us and one over, could be heard speaking on the telephone loud enough to hear himself to which the rest of us did too. On his 90th birthday, he bought himself a new car when he passed his driver’s license. I asked if he liked the new one and he said, “it’s the same car as my last one, just has more safety features I now need.” Joseph took a fall in his apartment recently, ending up in hospital with a head injury that he could not recover from. His absence is noticed in our building.

When we first moved in and met Joseph, we would see him often as we walked Tango. He would pull up to say, “hello. How are you. I’m fine.”  Every time. You knew Joseph was recently in the elevator because of the lingering scent of his cologne.  

He was flirtatious. He told me once that he envied Tango. I asked why.  He said, “because he can spend so much time with you.” He had a great sense of humor. When I had returned home from a trip to Mameo with my sister, I saw him on the street and told him about it. I went on my way, and he went into the garage and bumped into Jon.  Jon asked him what he was up to.  Joseph said, “oh, I just got back from Mameo.”  

“A kind, sweet man”. That is how everyone in our complex describes him. And he was. It isn’t that I knew him well.  I don’t even know if he has family nearby. I reckon I will learn this when we attend his funeral. But his passing does leave a hole.  The parking lot is quieter. The elevator has no distinguished smell. His TV and telephone conversations are no longer heard. It is, for me, a gentle loss.

What do I mean by gentle.  I suppose it is that my interactions with Joseph were casual, neighborly. We did not share stories or personal matters of the heart. We never had a drink together. Maybe, the number or the intensity of connections is relevant to the depth of love. And thus, the pain of loss feels softer when compared to other relationships. A gentle loss is not as heavy as the grief of other losses that I live with. It still hurts, but not as sharply.

And it does not take away from the enjoyment had with my brief conversations with Joseph. He was a sweet, older man whose character livened up our community.  I am truly, tearfully sad. I will miss him. After all a loss is a loss, even if it is gentle. I sit with my tea and remember him fondly and my heart smiles of the antics we all experienced with such a wonderful human. I feel blessed to have had the pleasure of knowing such a beautiful soul. 

Joseph, may you giggle with the angels.  Thank you for making each of us feel so special.