The Landlord

The Landlord When finally at 80 Sammy died Polly gave me from the pantry packets of dry noodle soup that Sammy to the end drank down as supper. Tureens of it, with swallows from the pint I’d smuggle in, kept Sammy blinking at the light the final weeks. I lived below them at the time and needed more than soup but in the parlor where they laid him out we sat on high-back chairs amid the flowers and marveled at how straight our Sammy lay. Who prepared him must have brought his gnomic back, twice at least, full force across a knee. Donal Mahoney