My elderly neighbor, Mr. Dalen, once asked me to pick up a few of those old-fashioned plastic patio chairs—the ones with the round holes in the seat. When I couldn’t find that exact kind, I brought home the newer version. He thanked me politely, but something in his eyes tightened.
It bothered me more than I expected. This man never complained. He was in his late seventies, still wore his faded fishing hat even though he hadn’t cast a line in years. Since his wife, Nadine, passed, I’d been helping him with small chores. So his reaction sat heavy with me.
When I finally offered to return them, he sighed, then asked, “Do you know what the holes are for?”....
