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?”

I guessed. I was wrong.

“Rain,” he said softly.

He explained that he and Nadine used to sit outside under an umbrella, listening to the rain come down. The holes kept water from pooling so they could stay out there longer—just the two of them, sharing quiet moments that had become priceless memories.....