Last night I took a memorial walk to a coffee shop at the park.
Why a memorial walk? For our neighbor who passed away and who liked this coffee shop, and this park.
He was young, with a very hard life. Like a lot of Americans, he had health challenges and medical bills and no family left. He liked privacy and quiet and peace. He liked being unseen and unheard, but sometimes he would appear outdoors and talk to us. That’s how we learned that he liked trees, and animals. One time we had a solar eclipse, and he came outside and shared his safety viewing glasses with everybody. He liked Billy Joel songs, and waffles, and tea. He liked two special luxuries: a Sumo Orange or two every winter, and every summer a pint of local lavender-flower ice cream. He liked the painting “The Starry Night” by Vincent van Gogh, and was patiently crafting a very detailed replica with tiny Legos from a kit. He wrote in a journal, one of those old school composition books with the marbled black & white cover. He made origami peace cranes, and left them on doorsteps as gifts. The only time I ever saw him laugh was when he talked about an animated show called “Marcel the Shell with Shoes On” about a clam living with his grandmother and a pet ball of lint, and who sets out to find his lost clam family. And, he loved a little companion animal, who loved him right back as an inseparable shadow day and night.
He also had a dream his whole life long, that he could save up enough money to some day walk El Camino in Spain. That gave him so much comfort: seeing himself as a pilgrim, getting well and going out on a healing adventure to the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela and making new friends along the way.
Then, Little Pet got sick. There were many alarmed trips day and night with the pet carrier to the vet, and vigils and prescriptions until all the savings were gone. There was no more money for pilgrimage or for Little Pet. That meant one more trip with the carrier, this time to the shelter. Then it meant watching the shelter’s website hour by hour until it showed Success: this small companion had a new family and new name.
Everybody liked this neighbor. Everybody wanted to help and did help, we small amateurs in our own small ways, and trained professional people in big skilled ways. But still we started seeing less of him around, and seeing more gifts on more doorsteps. The last gift was Little Pet’s collar.
This is our fourth lost neighbor now, in my time living here. The first was a beautiful young woman who lived downstairs. She worked at a local store and saw me come in as a customer, and for some reason she decided that my door was one to knock on. Late one night she knocked and said “Here ya go” and walked away showing no wish to stop and chat. In my arms she dropped three boxes of ornate Catholic stationery, and three long dresses that I still wear, and an Orthodox icon. Then she hurried away waving off my thanks. If only I had recognized why she was giving things away. The neighbors held a memorial service, and over 60 building tenants came to share stories about her.
Other countries and cultures all have unfixable problems, and this is not in any way to disparage Anglo-America per se. But I can not forget the thought (or fantasy?) that in Kenya, or Finland, or Cyprus, or Sicily, or the Netherlands, there would have been more nosy relatives butting in, maybe more medical and social safety net, and things didn’t have to turn out like this.
At that coffee shop by the park, the counter staff were surprised to hear the news about their regular customer who came in early mornings and sat in the way back with a teabag and a cup of hot water, and he’d stay there a couple of hours just writing in his journal or looking at his phone. “He talked all about you,” I told them. “How he could sit with his tea in peace because you let him stay. You meant a lot to him. In fact, you were probably the last people who interacted with him, and one of the nicest experiences he had by then. Thank you for your work.”
The staff were kind enough to ask, “What was his name?” One of them said “Whatever we did — it is a simple thing if that is just who you are. That is who we wish to be with everyone who comes in here.”
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Two days ago I passed a pretty garden of a front yard with a happy sight: a Mom and playful children and a baby in a carriage were headed out for a stroll. Their dog, a Golden Retriever, was left behind watching the scene with eager good spirits.
My clear instinct was actually to stand there and wait, and hold the gate for Mom and close it behind her; she had her hands full with the carriage and kiddos. But I did not obey that instinct. I didn’t want to interrupt or give the impression that she couldn’t handle the task herself. So I paused only long enough to exchange a quick smile with Mom, and I stepped aside off the sidewalk and waited as the carriage and kidlets swept past, with everyone chatting away. I turned the corner too, headed home. By then the carriage was up ahead out of sight.
Then, a beautiful Golden Retriever came down the street. The same dog?? I called her, and she trotted right over to me for a sniff and a slow wag of her plumey tail, cocking her head and looking up at me.
“She was about to step into the traffic down there,” said a young man, out for an evening run. He calmly took the dog’s collar in hand. Right away a young woman came out of her house with the same story. Another couple hurried outside to join us. “Shall we put her in that yard back there for now?” I suggested. “At worst, instead of one beautiful Golden Retriever now they’ll have two.”
The dog was searching in all directions, sniffing the air, cocking a concerned eyebrow, drooling with eagerness, giving us all a smile of pleading appeal, quivering to be off again on her mission. The runner held the dog still, reading her engraved tags. “So, you’re Gracie! No address, but here are two cell phone numbers.” He read them off to the group, and they called both phone numbers and left voicemail with our location. (“We’ve got Gracie. She is fine! We’ll stay right with her.”) Three times, Gracie leaned forward, anxious to set out on her search again. Three times the runner told her “Gracie, can you sit?” Each time Gracie obeyed him instantly, planting her silky skirts on the pavement with a sigh while we stroked her lovely pale gold fur.
Another young man came into view around the corner, loping toward us with his hands out. Gracie leaped to her feet, snapping to attention, waving her tail high like a signal flag.
All of us laughed with relief. “Ok to let her go?” our runner called to him. Sure! Gracie sprinted into the arms of her family member. We all stayed to fill in the owner on Gracie’s short but excellent adventure, and we gave her a final cuddle and pet of congratulations — a happy outcome in under ten minutes, thanks to quick-thinking neighbors and Gracie’s agreeable Good Girl manners. We exchanged good wishes, and headed home.
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Last night in my dream I was awakened out of bed by a dazzling light shining into the sky. (Yes, it was waking up, but only in a dream about waking up. While still sleeping.) In the dream the light came from our late neighbor’s front door. He was back again, this time radiantly happy and healthy, all dressed up, calling out for all of us neighbors to come inside and visit him in his fresh new home — a hovering box of light.
It was a nice wishful thinking dream. And tonight the question comes to mind (well, it’s always in mind, really): In America, who gets lost? Who gets found? How can the village grow and heal, one soul at a time?
