I Brought Groceries to My Elderly Neighbor Every Sunday for Twelve Years. After His Funeral, His Lawyer Handed Me a Suitcase I Never Expected.
Then I brought over more: six, eight, twelve.
By the time Elise arrived, the table was crowded with mismatched mugs from our house and donated cups from neighbors.
“He’s going to be impossible to impress,” she said, smiling at the photograph.
“He’d complain that we bought cheap coffee.”
“Then he’d drink three cups.”
I laughed.
It was the first time thinking about Arthur made me happy before it made me sad.
We turned off the kitchen light and went home, leaving the table ready for whoever came the next morning.
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