Little Old Man's Funeral

In Wyoming, I lived in a townhouse next to Davis Middle School. The average apartment complex provided housing for those struggling to make ends meet. Next to us lived a couple I knew only as Little Old Man and Little Old Lady. I am ashamed to say, I never knew their actual names.

The couple looked shriveled after years in the sun. They had moved to Evanston from Arizona since they had family in the area. Their family would occasionally appear to take advantage of the couple, and soon they were left without a car or many belongings. Watching an elderly couple struggle at the end of their lives filled me with sadness and a tinge of anger.

I worried that Little Old Man and Little Old Lady didn't have enough to eat, so one day I knocked on their door and offered them some groceries. Pride wouldn't allow them to accept my gift, so I returned home to give the problem more thought.

The next day, I cooked extra food for dinner. Afterwards, I stepped next door with a few containers. I explained that I had made too much food and was worried it would go to waste. Little Old Lady graciously accepted the offering.

For the ensuing year, I "accidentally" made too much food at least once a week. I got to know more about the couple during our chats; they had lived a long life full of challenges. I looked forward to our visits and often tried to help them in other small ways.

One day, I learned that Little Old Man had passed away. It was during summer break, so I decided I would attend the funeral.

I arrived at St. Mary Magdalen Catholic Church a bit early. No one was there yet, so I slipped into an empty pew in the middle of the sanctuary. I sat quietly until eventually a few more people arrived. I recognized the apartment manager, but the other two people were strangers.

Eventually, the family arrived. As they entered the sanctuary, the men removed their cowboy hats and sauntered toward the front. When they saw signs marking the pews for family, they panicked. As one, they scuttled to the back and clamored into the open seats. I tried not to giggle and hoped my face remained neutral.

Next, Little Old Lady entered braced between two women. They led her to the front and sat patting her back while she quietly wept. My heart reached out to her, and I wished I could comfort her.

A new priest officiated the service. He didn't know Little Old Man very well, so his comments were generic and dull. After his homily, the priest asked if anyone wanted to give a eulogy. None of the relatives appeared to know what this was, so they performed the classroom maneuvers instinctive to all. With heads bowed to avoid eye contact, the congregation shuffled nervously.

Finally, the priest gave up and the organ commenced playing "Amazing Grace." Apparently, I alone knew how to sing. I wearily performed a solo while longing for the end of the funeral. After a few more words from the priest, the organ signaled the end. As the music played, I watched Little Old Lady shuffle down the aisle.

Presently, her eyes met mine. She veered off path, approached me, and put out her arms. I warmly hugged her frail body. She thanked me for the meals and visits and expressed how much it meant to her that I came to the funeral. I awkwardly patted her back and said, "That's alright, Little Old Lady." Dear God, why didn't I know her name!?

Little Old Lady moved away after the funeral, and I never saw her again. I wish I could believe that my neighbor lived out her years in comfort surrounded by those she loved. Experience tells me this wasn’t the case. I am thankful God brought us together to share food and conversation.