I did not
sleep much that night. The night before Papa Augusto died: the night of the 14th
of January, 2014. Hope on the one side of my bed and anxiety on the other, kept
sleep away!
I suppose one might call it ‘anxious concern,’ in lack of a better name; he gave me-–every
time I saw him—happiness: which had no equal in my life, —or, perhaps, seldom
ever again can or will have. Grief transcends value, in that: what it is for
one person may not be for another; one might give all he has for an hour more
with that person he loves, cares for: whereas, to mankind as a whole, that one
life may be worthless. Papa Augusto’s life was of such a value of the first (sad to say, in those last days and hours, he
was near a comatose state).
That night, the night I could not sleep,
the night before Augusto Peñaloza, ninety-two years old, died, the night went
by so quickly, and that sunrise appeared to fall upon me— for once — not
surprisingly, as often it does.
Sometime before noon my wife Rosa got a
call from her elder sister, Martha, an incurable call, telling her to go to the
hospital at once. All anxiety seemed to float, surrounding me in a cloud of
mystery, the unknown: but I knew, somehow I knew, the inevitable.
I saw the paleness on her face when she
returned, — given way to death; but it also had given way to God’s rich grace,
peacefulness. She told me, in no certain
words, her father had passed over into the other life; you know the life
beyond, afterlife. That he was now in
the hands of our Creator…
I do believe—as I recall—she kind of
whispered that, perhaps a little louder than a whisper, but not much. Her
father, a true Peruvian who kept back very little, was now unaccompanied.
I said gravely (at the funeral): “The world for me will be a little emptier,
with Papa Augusto gone and not quite like it used to be…” I had little more to
say, grief can choke, make a person’s disposition, careless.
He suffered so much the last days and
hours: it was as if he had done his penance for whatever wrongs he might have
done here on earth, in those long, ninety-two years, plus six months! I dare
say I, myself, would have sought death, being less painful; —so, I thought at
the time.
When I had wrung out all my thoughts
like twisting a rag of it water, clearing my head, I had kissed the coffin; a
certain hesitation befell me, — it could hardly be called nervousness—which was
not really new to me, but for some reason, death is necessary to crown all that
you have devoted your life to
—that
this was the moment which all the things you have done, learned, that
have been hidden from the eyes, and, mind, the knowledge of men from centuries
before, now one must face all this in the new present: perhaps most of an
unknown kind.
Hence, as to me, this was turning one
older page. Then I got thinking: how so many people come into sight to be
running the risk of not turning that old page, and not looking at the benefit of
an afterlife, a new page: continuously replacing it with science, and history
and philosophies of this world (which as
Jesus said: resides the kingdoms of Satan);
the new page, unturned for the old one; fear of the new wisdom, the unknown?
Papa Augusto knew, long before he died, he had to turn that page, and he
did!... Anyhow, Papa Augusto was to me right on the threshold of new happiness;
that in an instant, he was here on earth, and then there, wherever there is,
and there is a There: if that makes sense?
Thus, as I was kissing the coffin,
standing erect, looking at the dozen or so mourners, like a flash, this all
passed before me: new pages for Papa Augusto, long waited—; again, Papa Augusto
made me feel good, as always.
Date written: 2-2-2014 (1028)
For: Augusto Peñaloza who died 15 January, 2014.
