There is so much to talk about here I do not even know where to begin. We were born – not through choice and we make our way in life. What for? Whay are we here and what is this really all about?

Take Albert my 97-year-old neighbor who lies prone on a ‘Lazy-Boy’ in his front room. He cannot eat or swallow and to add insult to injury had recently suffered a bout of shingles as he slowly withers away. He entered the world in 1927 and made his way in life, out of Alexandria in Egypt to what will be his resting place in California. That is a detail I know little about. Why California? What I do know from when he was able to tell me stories of his life, he once waltzed in tea rooms in Phoenix with his darling second, younger by 10 years, wife Barbera. Barbera is on her third marriage and even while sitting with the poor, declining Albert she extols the virtues of Marty the mechanic (A much loved husband number two). I look at the two of them and realize that they have spent 30 years at the same address, in our cul-de-sac, and just like our other neighbors Anne and Rodney they will simply exist until they exist no longer. Anne and Rodney sit in their cluttered garage several houses down, with the dog. They wave occasionally as we drive by. They have sat in their open garage in the cooler times for the last six years we have been there, doing nothing but simply existing.

Death can be a slow, agonizing process and seeing Albert like this makes me weep each time I visit. Once upon a time Albert was a proud man, but today he is embarrassed at his physical state. He apologises more than he needs. I understand and tell him it is OK. Albert confessed to me last Saturday that he wants to die. He is fed-up, but the release will not come quick for him. The interesting thing about Albert is that his grip is incredibly strong and his mind sharp, which makes it all the more frustrating for him. He rides the pain he feels in his skinny frame and tries his hardest to see out of his tired old eyes that see only blurred grey shapes. His hearing aid whistles with distortion as it is now maxed out in volume setting, it no longer disturbs him. He did ask Barbera to stop the wall clock, as the ticking and chiming is a reminder of how slow time is passing. Barbera will not stop the clock – maybe that’s psychological. This end-of-days scenario is, I am sure, not what Albert was expecting.

Albert at 92 spoke Egyptian, French, Greek, Italian and was quite an accomplished artist. He baked Baklava for the Saturday market on Bethany Road and sometimes on a weekend we played Backgammon (When we did, he cheated – how can you cheat at Backgammon?). Jewish by faith he, thankfully, has not been able to see the hell that is happening in Israel and Palestine. Barbera has shielded him from that. It is too tiring for her to talk a lot as his hearing is all but gone. At 86 Barbera is now his full-time care giver and she is frankly too old to be doing that chore.

Looking at Albert and the tired, hunched over Barbera has made me question my own existence and to ask myself what my life is really all about. Why do I exist?

It appears to me that, for many people I encounter, life is indeed all about survival. They do what they can, with the resources they have, for as long as they can. Yet, I find it hard to believe that this is the sole purpose of our existence as human beings. It seems like an immense expenditure of time and effort for naught but fleeting memories, especially if these experiences are never recorded.

As I watch Albert’s slow decline, I’m reminded that life’s meaning must extend beyond mere survival. There’s a deeper purpose, something greater than the daily struggle to endure. Our lives should be more than just a series of moments that slip into obscurity if left unmarked.