Life

Today, Mr. Kerry across the way raked his leaves. On Monday, he buried his wife.

I have been over there several times for various reasons. I've met them both, but only recently did I get to know her. You see, after her second stroke, they gave her new meds that made her sleepy in the afternoon. The doctors corrected that and one afternoon, I helped wrangle their dogs and sat down for a coke. We talked about family, the neighborhood and a lot more.

Last week, the ambulance showed up at their house and carried her away in a gurney, all in the view of my work window. Two days later, I was working on the sod when he and his daughter came home.

I'm covered in dirt, sweat and exhaustion.

"How are you?" I ask.

"Well, my mother just passed," the daughter replied looking at the ground. I looked over at Mr. Kerry getting out of the driver's side of their luxury car. He stops, rests his head on his hand on the car door. He doesn't move.

"I'm so sorry," I said. I think I said it three times.

They walk inside without being able to speak.

A couple days later, Yvonne and I walked across the street when we saw Mr. Kerry watering his hedges. He began weeping when he saw us crossing the street. We said hello and he took about 30 seconds to gain composure--something I suspected he's been struggling to do for two days.

"I wasn't in the room when she passed," he said. "She always gave me a hard time for not hearing her call. I wonder if I didn't hear her."

He began to cry again. Yvonne hugged him and he whispered to her, "Sixty years."

Today, Mr. Kerry raked his leaves.