His eyebrows may be his most distinctive quality. There is something about them, though most people forget what just before forgetting him. He lives alone in grey house that wants to be white. He had never married, though on winter nights, when the winds curl through the cracks, he is still warmed by the faint trace of a summer… On rare occasions when people mention him, they stare blankly at each other and utter meaningless phrases like,
“He used to do something, I heard. He taught or climbed telephone poles.”
He likes to be alone because it is the only time he doesn’t feel lonely.
His voice is the voice people hear when they dial wrong numbers and mutter apologies. The faint trace of his pinky has made its way into countless photo albums. The faint sound of him whistling was once heard by two strangers sharing a park bench right before they fell in love. He has held thousands of elevator doors for breathless masses. Generations of migrating birds plan their route to take them by his birdfeeder. Last week, in your car, you nodded at him when he let you into traffic, then you turned up the music. As a child, you took short cuts through his yard to the park. The broken chair his neighbor put out on the curb two years ago has been restored and sanded and painted and now proudly supports his weight each day for breakfast. He corners, picks up, and returns dropped change at gas stations at least six times a week. The lettuce in his garden always gets light and water. Last Mother’s Day, while you dined with mom it began to rain. He rolled up your car windows. Only three people on earth have ever really known him. Only one has ever really loved him. They are all gone now, like the snow that was mysteriously shoveled from your driveway when you were four. Soon he will be gone too. And only the chair and the lettuce and the birds will mourn him.
