As I came into the building on Thursday, two men in dark suits were discussing how to get a guerney with a blue body bag up the steps. So I knew someone had died. It turned out to be Rose.
Rose turned 100 six weeks ago. She was tiny, with a German accent and rheumy eyes and white hair. I don't know how long she'd lived in the building, but it was many decades.
Once, several years ago, Rose was scheduled to go for an MRI. The alarm in the metal detector kept going off, and there was some confusion as to why. Hair pins? No. Pacemaker? No. Pin from a hip replacement? No. Finally the technician asked, "Do you have any metal anywhere in your body?"
Rose thought and thought, and finally her eyes lit up. "Ahhh! It's the bullet!" she said.
Yes, when she was a girl in Germany the Nazis shot her father in front of her, and a fragment of the bullet ended up in her head. And it was still there.
Rest in peace, Rose. May you truly, truly rest in peace.