102

Today is Sidney's birthday. He was born in 1904.

Sidney lives across the street in a house he bought in 1950. His daughter, Iona, lives there too. She's a retired nurse who takes care of Sidney. We see her from time to time, having a cigarette on the porch, or through the kitchen window. When we woke up Monday morning, the paramedic truck was outside. A police car was down the street. No one was moving very quickly. We've seen the trucks there before. A couple of times, Sidney's heart had stopped, but the paramedics revived him and he went on to enjoy his 100th birthday celebration and the year I grew extra tasty tomatoes.

This time was different. A police officer stepped out to the porch to make a phone call. She scribbled notes on her clipboard. She looked down at the ground. A slight drizzle started to fall. The west horizon was dark and cloudy, a sign of a dreary day ahead. The paramedics drove off slowly, quietly. The police eventually left. Iona stood on the porch and light a cigarette, staring at the ground.

I walked over in the drizzle and gave her a hug. "He didn't wake up," she said. "I didn't think it would be this hard."

It's never easy. Never.

Good night, Sidney. And happy birthday.