The morning sun stunned my weary eyes as I climbed the subway steps. I pulled my urban suit of armor—sunglasses and an imposing pair of noise-canceling headphones—from my bag. Eye contact was the gateway to conversation and only the bravest of souls (usually German tourists) were willing to flag me down for directions while I was wearing them. But the headphones were more than a deterrent; they were also a mental retreat. I didn’t usually listen to anything—it was the feeling of being enclosed that comforted me. Sliding them on was like escaping to a private space of my own, observing the world rather than participating in it.
I loved how the city moved at simultaneous yet contrasting paces. One was the slow, mesmerized shuffle of first-time visitors to New York as they savored every detail of every streetscape. The other was a dexterous routine of sidestepping and outpacing those visitors, which locals had perfected to get from A to B as quickly as possible. It was like watching fish darting in and out of swaying seaweed.
As I began to walk, the sun briefly plunged into a gloomy cluster of clouds, creating an ambience more reflective of my mood. Even though it was my job, it was still jarring to watch two people die in the space of a week. From behind my dark lenses, I observed each passerby—their expression, their body language, the way they engaged in the world. All seemed oblivious to the fact that they were burning matches whose flames could unexpectedly fizzle at any moment.
As if underscoring my thoughts, tires screeched and yelling erupted in the street behind me. A man preoccupied by his phone had walked into oncoming traffic, narrowly avoiding a collision with a UPS truck. His flame had faltered briefly, but it continued to burn.
He was one of the lucky ones.
* * *
Tendrils of morning light spilled into my apartment as I sat down in Grandpa’s favorite armchair to write my notes about Abigail. His broad shoulders had rubbed away the ridges of sage corduroy and the seat cushion was slightly more indented on one side because he always crossed one leg elegantly over the other. Each morning, he’d sit there reading the newspaper, ankle resting on the opposite calf, revealing his day’s choice of sock—always some kind of stripe. The steam of his black coffee would dance with the sunlight that always hit that exact spot in the living room.
His armchair had seemed enormous when I was a kid, and Grandpa was larger than life. But when I returned to live in the apartment after his death, it seemed to have shrunk, just like he had with age. A lithe man of six foot five, he’d towered over the rest of the world, so much so that it seemed like his head was permanently bent forward in deference. By the end, he measured closer to six foot two.
I nestled into the armchair like I was leaning back into his embrace and considered what I would write about Abigail. People don’t usually realize that the words they’re saying will be the last ones they’ll ever speak. Usually, those words are pretty mundane, like “It’s cold in here,” or “I’m tired,” or a series of nonsensical phrases brought on by the delirium of death. I still made sure to document my clients’ official last words in one of my notebooks, for accuracy’s sake. But then I’d elaborate the record with anything else poignant or interesting the person might have said during my time tending to them. After all, it’s a little unfair to be remembered for something just because it was the last thing you physically said.
Abigail’s last words, though she said them hours before her actual death, were a recurring theme in my REGRETS notebook. If I ever analyzed my records statistically—and one day, I might—that theme would probably turn out to be the one I heard most often.
I wish I’d told them how much I love them.
Sometimes people were referring to parents or spouses, other times it was friends. In almost every case, it was because they’d been so busy in their lives that they took their loved ones for granted.
Or they just never knew how to find the right words.
There are few rawer expressions of vulnerability than I love you. At least, that’s what I’d gathered from hearing people talk about it—I’d neither said nor been the recipient of those words. My parents weren’t exactly forthcoming with affection, verbal or otherwise. And even though I knew Grandpa loved me more than anyone, he’d never said it out loud. But as far as I could tell, I love you was one of the hardest things to say in the English language. Not for its pronunciation (synecdoche held that title, in my opinion), but for the weight it carried. The way it teetered on the tip of your tongue, like a child on the side of a pool before attempting their first dive. The heart leaps, the pulse thunders, and you wonder if it’s too late to turn back.
It sounded kind of thrilling, actually. But, then again, loving someone inevitably also meant one day losing them—if not by rejection or betrayal, then most certainly by death. At least when you’re alone, there’s no risk of getting hurt. After all, you can’t lose something you don’t have.
The church bells down the block chimed to signal eight o’clock—three minutes late, like they had for years. I’d always wondered if I should let someone at the church know about the delay, but I liked the imperfection of it all. Proof that we’re all living our lives slightly out of sync with one another.
Robbed of a whole night’s sleep, I was tempted to go straight to bed, but I knew better than to mess with my circadian rhythm. I’d try to keep myself awake at least until sundown. Watching TV would only make me sleepier, so I needed something that would keep me active.
And I knew exactly what I could do to busy myself.
When I first began documenting the last words of dying people, it was simply to keep a record. A way of acknowledging the life they’d lived—however flawed and messy that might have been—especially when they had no one else to remember them. But in the past couple of years, whenever I was feeling anxious, depressed, or was longing for human company, I’d begun to revisit the entries in the notebooks. Reading people’s final words made me feel close to them, like they were somehow guiding me with their wisdom. And focusing on them rather than my own loneliness gave me a purpose, a way to fill my days and pull me out of my melancholy. Maybe by studying what people deemed to be most important when looking back on an entire life and finally connecting the dots, I could find some direction in my own. So once in a while, I’d select an entry from one of the notebooks and find a way to integrate that person’s wisdom into my own life.
From the ADVICE notebook, I’d pick an entry and try to live by that guidance for the next week. Sometimes it was as simple as treating myself to a bunch of fresh flowers, even if it was just from the corner bodega—the advice of Bruce, a plumber with a passion for gardenias. Other times it was more poignant, like the words of Dorothy, a dog groomer with charming dimples who told me that the most important lesson she’d ever learned was to listen more than you speak. (Admittedly, when you’re an introvert like me, that’s pretty easy advice to follow.)
With the CONFESSIONS notebook, I had to get creative. I wasn’t sure if I believed in karma, but I figured it couldn’t hurt to do something that might make up for the deed a client had confessed to. In Guillermo’s case, for example, I might volunteer at an animal shelter to atone for the accidental demise of his sister’s hamster. Then there was Ronald, a gruff accountant with lung cancer who admitted that he used to steal money from street musicians when they weren’t looking. In his memory, I always carried ten-dollar bills so I could slip them into the musicians’ hats and instrument cases whenever I saw one. I tried to do it discreetly, wrapping the ten in a one-dollar bill, so that it was a nice surprise later that day when they were counting their earnings.
From the REGRETS notebook, I’d choose one and try to find a way to honor it—if I could avoid making the same mistake they did, if I learned from their regret, then it wasn’t in vain. Since I already had that notebook in my lap, I closed my eyes and let the pages flip through my fingers to choose an entry at random—it always felt more democratic that way.
Camille Salem.