So last Tuesday I saw Mr. Jenkins sitting alone on his porch bench looking sadder than a wet cat. His wife passed six months back, and man, that grief just clings to him like cheap aftershave. Just couldn’t bear to see him crying into his tea again. Figured I’d actually try stuff instead of just feeling bad about it. Here’s how it went down:
The Awkward First Try
Grabbed two mugs and walked straight over. “Morning, Mr. J! Brought some of that awful instant coffee you like.” He gave this weak smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Sat down hard on that creaky bench next to him. Felt awkward as hell. Tried blurting out, “Hey, wanna talk about Dorothy?” Big mistake. His chin wobbled, and he stared at his slippers like they held the meaning of life. Sat there slurping burnt coffee in silence for ten minutes. Only sound was a squirrel screaming in the oak tree. Yeah. Went real smooth.
Actually Listening For Once
Came back the next day with oatmeal raisin cookies – his dead wife’s recipe, burned the edges black just like she always did. Handed him one. “Dorothy was crap at baking too, huh?” He snorted. Actual laughter! Shoved the whole cookie in his mouth. “Damn right!” he mumbled through crumbs. Then he started. Just little things at first – how she’d hum off-key in church, how she planted marigolds every spring even though the rabbits ate ’em. My job? Shut up and chew. Nodded a lot. Said “Yeah?” a few times. Didn’t push. Let him trail off when his voice cracked. The squirrel screamed again, but this time it was almost peaceful.
Doing Something Dumb Together
Thursday morning. Found him staring at her overgrown rose bushes. Looked lost. Said, “Right. We’re fixing this.” Shoved my rusty clippers into his hands. “You point. I cut. Unless you wanna bleed.” He grumbled about “stupid thorns” but waded in. Started bossing me around immediately. “That one’s DEAD, boy! Hack it off! Left! Your OTHER left!” Sweating buckets in that heat. Poked each other with canes and sniped about wilting petunias. Dug out a gnarly root while he cackled, “Dorothy hated that ugly bush! Took forever to kill!” By lunch, we looked like swamp monsters coated in dirt and sweat. His face? Less grey.
Breaking the Routine Trap
Friday rolled around. He was back on the bench. Stuck record. Time to break it. Marched over at 10 AM sharp. “Get up. We’re going to the duck pond.” He whined about his arthritis, the distance, the “damn ducks stealing bread.” Dragged him anyway. Fed stale buns to pigeons instead (ducks were busy). Watched him grumble… until a goose snatched a bun right out of his fingers. He yelped, then laughed until tears ran down his cheeks. Actual tears. “That goose,” he wheezed, “is meaner than Dorothy!” First time he smiled without looking sad right after.
The Weird Little Memorial
Saw him wandering aimlessly in his garage Saturday. Just standing there touching rusted garden tools. Knew that look. Brought out a cheap terracotta pot. “Plant the damn marigolds, Mr. J. Rabbits be damned.” He mumbled about it being “pointless.” Shoved a packet of seeds into his shaky hands. We filled that pot with sour-smelling soil from a half-used bag. Poked holes. Dropped seeds. Spilled dirt everywhere. Watered it till muddy water leaked onto the driveway. Set it crookedly on her old potting bench. “They’ll be dead in a week,” he muttered. Patted his shoulder, real awkward. “Probably. Let’s find out.” The squirrel screamed approval. Or maybe rage.
What actually stuck? Honestly? The dumb stuff. The burned cookies. The goose thief. The dirt spilled all over my boots. He still wakes up sad sometimes. Won’t pretend we found magic. But he waves now when I walk by. Sometimes even shouts about that “stupid goose.” Point is, you gotta show up. Keep it simple. Don’t fix the unfixable. Burn the cookies. Spill the dirt. Listen to the squirrel scream. It’s messy. Works better than fancy words.
