Davis Platt was one of the first friends I made when I moved to New York in 1996. We met at a general membership meeting for the Identity House, a community peer counseling center. I was flattered when he asked one of the facilitators who I was, as a sort of fresh-faced new member. He was 73 at the time, and we immediately became friends. He knew alot about life and the city, and I was eager to know more about both.
On October 10 I received a message from his nephew, and immediately thought "oh, sh`t." When I returned his phone call, I learned that what I dreaded was true: David had died. He'd had hip replacement surgery back in May, and late on October 2nd, he got up from bed and fell. He broke his fall by hitting his chest against the corner of a table, and punctured his lung and fractured a couple of ribs. Yes, he called 911 and they responded immediately. The following day he was in good spirits at the hospital, and then in the afternoon, his heart failed.
The term "passed away" fits here; we can fairly say "Davis passed away." On his dying day, he was 85 and went rather painlessly. I can't say the same about Alice.
I didn't know that death could feel OK, that it could feel like part of the order of the world. Hearing of Davis's passing, I felt shocked, I felt sad, I also felt at peace. He had lived a long life and experienced a significant amount of what life had to offer. Alice also experienced what life had to offer, only less than someone who reached 85 years. It still feels like Alice was torn from this world, and I believe I will never feel that way about Davis's departure.
At his memorial service, I spoke without tears of my gratitude for his work in the civil rights movement. How his efforts contributed to the existence of my family today. It was for the public to hear, it felt final, and afterwards I was relieved.
Relief is a feeling that just isn't part of my relationship with Alice today. I suppose it never was.
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