Michael Abateo wiped his brow as the sweat pulsated from his pores. He was getting old. He reckoned you leaked more as you age. From one’s bladder, nose and even eyes. He had grown accustomed to the gradual changes in his body. He didn’t complain but hugged the physical pain close to keep other pains away. Losing his wife Maria had broken him in so many ways.
It was only after she died he realised her happy nature has ever been the sunshine in his life. Of course, she had driven him crazy at times! Her good nature seemed to extend to every passing stray she met. But she had chosen him to love and that still felt like an undeserved blessing, even 50 years later. He couldn’t put into words what she meant to him but now even a year later, her loss felt like a mortal wound.
The children had been great. Loving and supportive despite their own personal loss. During Maria’s illness and funeral, he had been shocked that they had become mature adults and he a devastated child. Every day that passed he was reminded of Maria in all their acts of kindness towards him. When they called at his house there was always a tender look of concern as if to ask, “Are you, alright dad?” Their faces reminded him of Maria and sometimes when they spoke to him he stopped listening to the actual words and just drank in their similarities to Maria. The way they laughed. Full-throated, head thrown back and arms flailing. They seem to use their hands when they talked just like their mother. Turning both hands outwards as if opening two door handles at the same time. He remembered the gesture and it felt like being in her presence for a second again, warm and loved once more. Michael had realised he wasn’t getting over his loss. He didn’t need anyone to tell him that.
Neighbours had been kindly, he couldn’t complain about anyone. Even Maria’s friends had cooked meals and dropped in to try and cheer him up. He realised how Maltese he was in his ability to have so many people around him and yet feel so truly alone.
These days he’d taken up a service project in Valetta and as he walked rapidly through the steep streets he’d begun to notice the lonely older faces in upstairs windows looking out. Strange how you can live in a place for decades and yet fail to see so much. The project had been his son’s idea. An old palazzo needed weekly cleaning and Michael for some reason had accepted this suggestion when he had rejected so many others.
He actually looked forward to his weekly visits to the empty deserted building. Dust covered the front door and the litter box was ever filled to overflowing with stupid fliers. He liked the silence and the practical tasks, they both soothed him. Even dumping the fliers felt like a weekly ritual cleanout. He would take a wooden folding chair and place it near the front to prop the big green wooden doors open to help dry the tiles while he cleaned. He’d been startled to find a huge dead red cockroach near the front door lying belly-up in the empty corridor. It must have cooked in the heat, he thought. Although he had spotted it the week before, he hadn’t disposed of it. The big front doors that day had proven difficult to open, so he’d gone to the ironsmith shop close to Saint John’s Cathedral. The owner had explained all the old wooden doors swell up in the summer sun and become stuck. He explained,
“You have to be careful though, if you sand them down in summer then in the winter you’ll let the rain in!”
Michael had enjoyed the chaos of his shop and their conversation. It was rarer these days to find shopkeepers with time to chat. He’d carefully sanded the door of the palazzo, just a bit, to make it easier to open and so hadn’t had the time to deal with mopping and cleaning. He wasn’t getting paid for his services so he wasn’t unduly worried. When he returned a week later the red coloured cockroach was exactly where he had left it, still lying on its back.
Rather than handle it, Michael decided to use the mop and just wipe it off into the water in his bucket. He’d done the whole of the entrance hall when he noticed movement in the container. The cockroach had come alive! Given that the bucket was full of strong cleaning fluid as well as water, Michael was shocked to find the dead cockroach now clinging to the mop head in his bucket.
He was incredulous at this rejuvenation of a previously dead insect. Unsure how to proceed he decided to shake the mop out through the front door over the metal gate. The cockroach landed on it back on the pavement and Michael forgot about the incident until he’d cleaned the whole lower floor and was ready to head home. He was delighted to find the front door easier to close, following his sanding of the previous week, and as he closed the door he straightened his back and stretched his arms above his head. It was good to be physically tired from real work.
A movement on the curb drew his attention. It was the red cockroach! A little the worse for wear but sitting the right way up shaking its wings in the sun, loosening up just like Michael. He looked at this fellow creature and remembered it lying seemingly dead to the world. It was saved by immersion in the dirty detergent water. Brought back to life by moisture’s magic. Michael felt a strange surge of optimism. Perhaps it was a sign of hope? Sometimes life leaves you with nothing, hardly a breath, barely a flicker to show the life force within. Unexpected things can bring you back from the edge, even the dregs.
As Michael walked home he began to feel a shadow lifting from his heart. Maria would’ve thrown back her head and laughed with her arms aloft if he’d told her about his encounter with the insect. That made him smile to himself and chuckle.
Previous story about Michael and Maria Abateo from years ago - Maria's kindness
