The Man Across The Street

There was a man who lived across the street from my family at Smith Avenue. He had a beautiful, green, well-kept yard. A driveway which he would keep very black. A lovely little garden. And he was very much alone. He had no one to share his beautiful little porch with.

Year after year this aging yet agile retiree would be diligently tending to the upkeep of his little life. Year after year the still-black driveway was preserved by the ominous absence of tire tracks and visiting cars. In fact, the driveway was completed vacated and the garage rarely saw it's one object, his own car, leave it's shelter. To my young mind, I could see nothing so wasteful as an empty driveway. Didn't he know that he could have really maximized my roller-blading space? I wasn't allowed to go out into the street but if he would only let me use his driveway... However, in the driveway's emptiness there was something infinitely more painful to me than a lack of roller-blading turf. Who needs skinned knees anyway?

The years passed and my sisters and I finally introduced ourselves. I don't even remember how the first meeting happened. We might have brought him cookies or a note or we might simply have walked up to him in his yard. I do remember that my grandmother broke the ice. From that time onward my family gradually became acquainted with him. We came to realize that he was simply a shy but sweet man who's family either lived far away or had departed from this life. A little more time wore on. As the once agile man was now ailing he came to confide to us that he was dying. He had brain cancer. I will never forget just how touched he was when we brought over my mom's amazing homemade chicken noodle soup and fresh rolls, kind and encouraging note, flowers, or some other thoughtful gesture. He proved to be just as thoughtful in return of his gratitude.

It didn't take him long to die. I remember that from the time I knew that this sweet old man was alone I took him into my heart. I only wish that he could have known that he was home with me. I wish he could have known that he was my dear adopted grandpa. I wish that we both could have overcome our mutual shyness so as to allow each other into our lives more fully. I would have loved to sit and listen to stories of his life. I like to think he would have been happy to tell them. But I didn't. And he didn't. And there is always a little twinge to my heartstrings when I think of what might have been.

I don't want to regret. I don't want to look back and think "what might have been." I have made a lot of mistakes in my life. We can't dwell or harrow up the past any longer than it takes for us to learn from it.

Life's an interesting adventure which can only be understood looking backwards, but must be lived going forwards. I hope my backwards searching will prove to propel me forward with my course being slightly straighter with correction. When the road is less traveled, it can take a little more time to clear away the roughage.