Edward Gauss liked to think of himself as an architect. He had never gone to architectural school; his degree was in journalism, but he had always been caught up with the shapes, the lines, the colors and functions of buildings. After almost half a century of writing for the New York Times, he had retired. The co-workers that threw him his retirement party were young, not even as old as his son, who was forty-five and lived in LA. They lauded his work, complimented his notable moments, but his real passion was buildings. He would wander the streets of his neighborhood, sketching, sometimes taking pictures. He was a writer, but he thought of himself as having the soul of an architect.
Edward was alone. His wife had died from complications from a sinus infection that turned into bronchitis. Waiting too long to get medical attention let it morph into pneumonia. At 66, her immune system simply couldn't handle the burden and she quickly faded, despite a hasty trip to the ER. He would sometimes go to the open plaza of the aging hospital where she had been treated and finally died, just to stare at the fountain and the odd Leninesque facade of the building. He did not go there to reminisce; his apartment was full of things he had not yet managed to throw away. On his coffee table there was still a pair of her reading glasses, left behind in their haste to get to the hospital. No, he went there to think about how full his life had been, how fortunate he had been to get a job in New York, to meet the love of his life and to be surrounded by edifices with immense character. But not to reminisce.
Sometimes he would write next to the sketches and pictures in his journals, collages of the facades and alleys he would visit just to get a different perspective. His wife had occasionally gone with him, bringing her knitting. She knew conversation was a distraction, that her presence was not entirely necessary, but she loved him and wanted to spend time with him while he did what he loved. They would sit on benches; he would sketch, she would knit or crochet. She probably did not realize how much her companionship at those times meant to him; she had been his rock. He wished he had told her how much her companionship had meant.
Edward continued to wander the streets of his borough, surrounded by people but feeling like he was utterly alone. When he walked, the streets seemed empty. Like his heart.