Now and at the Hour of Our Death

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There are things that can’t be written about as they have been in the past. Something changes. First the eyes, then the heart — or senses, or whatever our ancestors called the soul — and, finally, the hands.

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The first notes I take are about a man who was born, grew up, worked, was married, had a daughter, grew old, and died in the same village. These notes are not actually about the man, or his life, but about his death. They go like this:

Life in this house and with this family takes place entirely in this ground-level room, which is pleasingly dark and cool, and where there is a stove, a large table, an escanho — a long wooden bench common to Trás-os-Montes — and a door that leads to the pantry where they keep their produce.

It was April, the fireplace was not lit, but it was beside the fireplace that the man would often tell stories and where, all of a sudden full of life, he told stories that night. He said goodbye to his family — his daughter and granddaughter had come from the city. He said goodnight. He reminded the woman he’d been married to for sixty years to take her medicine.

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