It was July and a blistering hot morning. We’d been living with Covid-19 four months by then. I opened my cellphone to read a vibrating text.
“Please give Pops a call tomorrow. He can use your beautiful spirit right now.”
You bet I will! I tried yesterday but no answer, probably sleeping.
The next day I called again.
I texted-Your dad still not answering, mailbox full, can’t leave message. Is he alone-should I go check on him?
Yes! He texted.
I jumped in my car and sped to check on Pops, a.k.a. Cornelius Duhart, a.k.a. “Du”. The texts were from Michael, his son, who lived out of town.
Duhart’s sister answered my overzealous knocking. We’d not met but she knew who I was. Almost everyone in Duhart’s enormous family knew my name, if not me, personally. I was Christy to him, and them.
His sister was quiet and studied me with questioning eyes. Slowly she opened the screen door to let me in. She said little as she showed me through the living room, down the hallway, towards a closed door. I peered around the back of her head as she turned the doorknob. I caught my breath at the sight of Du lying there.
“Christy!” he hollered. A smile crowded his sunken face. “Come here, sit, right here.” He patted his bedsheet and slid himself over for me. I flashed back and remembered how he counseled me when Boone lay dying.
“He needs to be touched.” he lectured. But my upside-down thinking challenged him at every turn. Meaning, if I pretended Boone wasn’t dying then maybe he wasn’t.
“The dying knows they be dying.” He said. I relented and crawled beside my husband in that steel hospital bed awaiting death’s arrival.
I looked over at Duhart and swallowed my fear and slid in next to him. I wanted to pretend, tell him he was fine and he’d be better tomorrow. But we knew, the two of us. After all, he was my Angel of Death, Chapter One of Far Outside the Ordinary. Had I not learned anything?
Wanda, his daughter, slipped in and administered more pain medication. Oh how I understood her broken heart, the pain visceral. I’d been there watching my own daddy. He was loved hard by many, too. Duhart and Lou Landrum were both benevolent givers.
I tried to find something humorous to share with Du. Humor is my bandaid when uncomfortable. But my fragile strength collapsed. Instead, I cried. Duhart expected no less of me and just tightened his grip on my arm. He pointed to his right foot outside the sheet. It was swollen from amputation and there was a vacancy where I expected five toes. I didn’t count and looked away.
“The pain is bad, infected and needs to be cut off.”
“If it’ll save your life, do it.” I pleaded.
“Nah, won’t save nothing.”
“Then don’t.”
“I’m tired, just ready to go.” he mumbled.
Du had been in and out of the hospital for over two years. It started with open-heart surgery and was further complicated with diabetes and congestive heart failure. His big heart wore out from bestowing so much love on everyone else.
Time drifted as I sat sharing space inside the stale air. We retold the same worn-out stories , repurposed our memories. A broken grin replaced his usual large smile. It pierced my heart.
I sensed his exhaustion and left , promising to return the next day. I couldn’t. I was a hot mess . Dale, my husband, took charge and suggested he go visit. He loved the man who stood by him as his own mother took her final breath. Dale and Du were like brothers after that life-changing event. It is life changing, you know?
A week went by and I was swallowed by guilt. There is no cure for regret. I knew, without a proper goodbye, I would live with regret. I asked Dale to take me back. The change in a week screamed hopeless. Michael sat beside him, creating a melodic tune on his guitar. He’s an upbeat, handsome man, with bright eyes just like his father. It was lovely to witness sthe love between father and his son in the ebbtide of Duhart’s life.
I stood on the other side of his bed and rubbed his boney hands as he once rubbed mine. He drifted in and out of a morphine induced sleep. Occasionally, a soft chuckle escaped as he dreamt. He’d open his dazed, glazed eyes and search the room. Then watch Michael plucking the guitar strings or video taping him. He smiled large for the camera.
Dale shared ‘do you remember’ stories with him. The two going back and forth, filling in each others gaps with fading memories. We all hid our sadness and attempted to create joy.
Du looked over towards me with worn-out eyes. They locked with mine and his began to water. He gave my hand a weak squeeze and held on.
“You and me the same, Christy.” He whispered.
“I know.” My cracked voice buried a rising sob.
“We’re just different colors, oh, and you have that penis.” I said. He chuckled and moaned in the same breath.
“See, I made you laugh.”
After twenty-three years he was familiar with my unfiltered tongue. He was by far my best audience.
“We gots the same soul, too.” he continued.
“Twin souls, that would be a God wink.” I said and wiped the falling tears off my cheek.
“Sure is.” His heavy eyes closed again as he drifted back to sleep.
“I will always love you.” I whispered. His eyes opened half-way and closed again. I studied the slight smile inside his thinning lips. It was a telltale sign he felt my love. I saw peace on his skeletal face. and a wave of gratitude enveloped me. The two of us were an unlikely pair. Yet, we shared this deep friendship with the pureest love for over two decades. How lucky was I? It would our last conversation, and one I will carry in my heart forever.
I started bawling the moment I saw Mike Duhart on my caller ID. I picked up and he could hear me.
“Why are you crying, Prissy, it’s a celebration.” he said and laughed.
God love him! We talked for 30 minutes as he filled our conversation with positivity, scripture and Pop’s stories. By the time we said goodbye,I felt Duhart had resurrected inside my broken heart. Michael said everything his father would have, a perfect apprentice from the man who oozed kindess and positivity. Thank-you, Michael!
It was this past Saturday we buried the man who made life easier for others. Mainly, those living in pain with no hope. He was an angelic flashlight who led my daughters, and me, through the darkest of days . He showed us the light. Corneleus Duhart was one of the most enchanting beings I will ever know.
“No one ever gone, Christy.” He said to me only moments after Boone died. And I believed him.
You were the Angel of Death but I’m giving you a new title today. You are now the Angel of Life. Everyone should aspire to be like you and sprinkle kindness and joy, not chaos and hate.
You weren’t perfect but you were close enough for me. Thank-you for all those life lessons. Mainly, the gift of letting go. You will live forever inside Far Outside the Ordinary and Chasing Ordinary. It was my honor 
to pen your life.
BTW, you would have so loved your service . Man, were you popular! Crowds of people stood outside in the pouring rain. Even me. I imagined just what you would have said, “Get your boney self under that tent, where’s your umbrella, Christy?”
I wore my new hooded raincoat so didn’t need cover. Besides, I wanted that rain to camouflage my crybaby tears as I stood there and retraced the history we shared. It reminded of the quote by William Shakespeare…Tears water our growth. I felt taller when it was over.
It took me two hours to realize my new rain coat wasn’t waterproof. I was soaked to my underwear. Worse, so was your program I’d stuffed inside that coat for safe keeping. How you would have laughed at that ridiculous scene. Laughter through tears was always our favorite.
Michael played the guitar for us at the service. The very song he learned in those final days sitting with you. He also read your poem, the one you asked he read. Say what? I had no idea you were a poet. It’s fitting I post that treasure here on my blog. Honestly, it’s kinda funny. I’m finally letting you have the last word for the first time ever. The irony of life.
God speed dearest Duhart. Soar high above and spread those beautiful, glorioius wings! You done good down here! Christy will always miss you!
Angel Army
I’ve said my last prayer
I’ve sang my last song
The father has called me
So, it’s time to move on
You felt my love before
And you’ll feel it again
My brothers and sisters
Sons daughters
Grands and friends
The fight is not over
The war is not won
The Lord will not rest
Because His work isn’t done
I’m part of an army now
High up in the clouds
When you see the sun shining
Just know I’m looking down
I’ll always be with you
Still right by your side
So, listen for my voice
I dwell on the inside
So humble yourselves
And wait for the King
Life after death
what an amazing thing
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