At Peace

At his parents’ house, Thomas, while uplifted by the evening, was exhausted. It was late, but after a warm bath, he slept comfortably. In the morning, he awoke with a fever. The next day he was admitted to the hospital. It was pneumonia. We both knew this was the end. “I’m at peace,” he told me, “because of Sunday—.” He meant the night of the concert when he had played one last time. We said what were to be our last “I love you’s,” and then Thomas was placed in intensive care. Ten days later he passed on. He died doing what he loved and fulfilling his deepest wish to play: Not because I want to play, because I must.

Nine months after Thomas’ passing, the building super came to the apartment to fix a bathroom pipe. He spoke of Thomas and how much he had liked him. He had seen Thomas perform once, he said, and had enjoyed it very much. As he was leaving, he paused in the doorway. “By the way, do you remember Moi, the kitten that lived in the basement?” he asked. “Well, right after Thomas died, she just disappeared.”

Some days I imagine Thomas, over there, playing some raucous jazz, with Moi turning somersaults at his feet. Thomas is laughing, doing what he loves.