For eleven years, I drove my elderly neighbor Adriel to church every Sunday. A few days after his funeral, a uniformed soldier knocked on my door carrying a battered military box Adriel had never let me open.
Eleven years ago, I saw my elderly neighbor Adriel standing at a bus stop in a dark Sunday suit while rain hammered the street.
He was in his seventies then, leaning on a cane, one hand pressed over his hat.
I had lived beside him for three years and knew almost nothing about him beyond two facts: he had served in the military, and he kept the neatest vegetable garden on our block.
He climbed into my car carefully, folding his cane across his knees.
I pulled over, lowered the window, and called, “Adriel, do you need a ride?”
He looked surprised.
“Only if you’re going my way.”
“Where?”
“Church.”
I attended the same church, though I usually slipped into a back pew after the opening hymn.
I laughed. “Perfect.”
He climbed into my car carefully, folding his cane across his knees. Water dripped from his sleeves onto the floor mat.
“Sorry about your seat,” he said.
“The seat will survive.”
He smiled at that, barely.
After the service, he thanked me and started toward the bus stop again.
I attended the same church, though I usually slipped into a back pew after the opening hymn. Adriel was always early.
That morning, he asked, “Do you mind the front?”
“I mind being seen before coffee.”
He gave a quiet chuckle.
After the service, he thanked me and started toward the bus stop again.
Coffee became the beginning of something I never planned.
I said, “I’m already driving home.”
He nodded.
“Then coffee.”
Coffee became the beginning of something I never planned.
The next Sunday, I knocked on his door before church. He opened it wearing the same serious expression.
Soon, every Sunday looked similar. We went to church, then sat at his kitchen table or mine.
“I wondered if you’d remember.”
“You bribed me with coffee.”
“Weak coffee.”
“Still counts.”
Soon, every Sunday looked similar. We went to church, then sat at his kitchen table or mine.
There was always one chipped blue mug pushed to the back of his cupboard.
At first, I did most of the talking. Adriel answered in short sentences. Slowly, he started offering pieces of himself.
He told me which tomatoes hated shade, which neighbors cheated at cards, and why church coffee tasted “legally questionable.”
There was always one chipped blue mug pushed to the back of his cupboard.
I never saw him use it.
Once, I reached for it.
That was the entire explanation.
“Not that one,” he said.
I looked at him.
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
That was the entire explanation.
When my car battery died, he stood outside supervising the mechanic like a retired general.
I stopped asking.
Over the years, our friendship settled into ordinary habits. He left vegetables on my porch, I brought him dinner when he was tired, and as he got older, I helped with groceries and drove him to appointments.
When my car battery died, he stood outside supervising the mechanic like a retired general.
“You know engines?” I asked.
He could be funny when he forgot to protect himself from being funny.
“No.”
“Then why are you watching him?”
“Confidence improves performance.”
He could be funny when he forgot to protect himself from being funny.
He accepted help as though he were doing me a favor.
If I asked about the military, he changed subjects.
But he rarely spoke about his past.
If I asked about the military, he changed subjects.
Family questions got even less traction.
Nothing.
I stopped pushing.
Adriel seemed content to let me know him in the present.
Some people tell stories because they want company. Others keep certain rooms inside themselves locked.
Adriel seemed content to let me know him in the present.
That was enough.
Three weeks ago, he died in his sleep at eighty-four.
The funeral was small.
A few days later, someone knocked on my front door.
I sat alone in the pew where he usually sat beside me.
For the first time in eleven years, Sunday felt unfinished.
A few days later, someone knocked on my front door.
A man in military dress uniform stood outside holding an old, scratched military box. I recognized him from the veterans’ honor guard at Adriel’s funeral.
