`Soon has a way of slipping by'

The Boston Herald

BEVERLY BECKHAM

He looms for me in death larger than he did in life. He was just my neighbor, after all, a man I saw only once in a while; a man whose company I enjoyed, but more of an acquaintance than a friend. I shouldn't miss him. Entire seasons would pass and I wouldn't see him. And yet now, just a week after his death, his absence feels huge, and my heart is strangely sore.

I am so full of regret. Regret for not spending time with him. Regret for not knocking at his door or phoning and saying, "Hi. How are you doing? What do you think about this or that?" because Stan thought about everything. He read Kafka and he listened to Vivaldi and he absorbed history and he inhaled the present, devouring newspapers and magazines. He was so fully alive. He took such pleasure in every moment that I never considered that one day he would run out of moments.

Both of us worked at home. He was easily accessible. But day is inviolate, somehow, especially when your office is where you live. Day is a time for work, not play, for business, not friendship, and so I never crossed the street that separated us during business hours.

Night was a better option. But by night you're so tired from day, you don't want to do anything. Besides, nights are when you see your family. Weekends are for socializing. But then the weekend comes and there's this person to call and this place to go, always something else beckoning.

We would say, when we bumped into each other on the street or at the post office, "It's so good to see you." And we would mean it and promise to get together soon. But soon has a way of slipping by. Soon when the weather breaks. Soon when things slow down. As soon as we get back from vacation. And soon never comes.

Now Stan is dead and I am regretting that soon wasn't ever tomorrow, or the day after or the next week.

I met his wife before I met him. It was one of life's strange coincidences. My mother was in a nursing home. She needed a doctor. There was a choice of three. Two were men; one was a woman. I chose the woman.

In 17 years, no man of medicine had ever looked at my mother as a person. They saw her problems, her symptoms, but they never saw her. Deborah did. I liked her instantly. I didn't know she was my new across-the-street neighbor. When she told me, it made my choosing her feel like fate.

When my mother died, Deborah was there. She rushed from home to the hospital in the middle of the night. She was there at the wake, too, with her husband beside her. Was that the first time I met him? I'm not sure. I don't remember.

One day he called and asked if I would feed his dog while he and Deborah went away. Come over and I'll show you what to do, he said and I did. That was the first time I saw his office with its varied collection of books, and his music room filled from ceiling to floor with classical records and tapes and compact discs. It was then I got an inclination of the kind of man Stan was.

When they adopted a baby, I visited. That Christmas they came to our house. Stan sat on the couch and glowed. Deborah sparkled. Alexa beamed.

Did you know him well, someone asked at his memorial service. I didn't know what to say. Did we spend a lot of time together? No. But did I know him well? Yes. I did.

I knew how much he loved his wife. I knew how he looked at her, how he looked when he talked about her, how proud he was of her not because of what she did, but because of who she was. "You just have to show up," he used to tell her. Not do anything. Simply be.

I knew that he adored his children, his two older daughters and the new one who lit up his life. And I knew that he loved life - that he was intrigued by it, and never bored with it, that he had a passion for learning and for music and for laughter.

When he opened a door, he was honestly glad to see you. When he met you at the mall, it was as if he had met the Queen. I have a feeling he treated everyone like royalty and opened all the doors in his life eagerly and expectantly.

Stan was a presence, a life force, a kind and gentle man.

I will miss him dearly. I learned from him. Only I learned too late that soon isn't soon enough, that tomorrow isn't a promise, and that the people you wish you knew you need to get to know today.