My neighbor, Mr. Dalen, asked me to buy plastic chairs with holes for his yard. I couldn’t find them, so I got regular ones instead. He seemed quietly upset but didn’t explain. Curious, I asked why the holes mattered. He shared that he and his late wife, Nadine, loved sitting in the rain under an umbrella, coffee in hand, listening to the drops. The holes let water drain, keeping them dry. The new chairs would pool water, breaking the memory.
I felt awful for missing the significance. Soon after, I noticed his lawn unmowed and his mailbox overflowing. Concerned, I called for a wellness check. Mr. Dalen had fainted from dehydration and was hospitalized but recovered. Determined, I scoured stores and found the exact chairs. I set them in his yard. When he returned, he saw them, sat silently, and smiled as light rain fell through the holes. We shared coffee in silence, honoring Nadine’s memory.
Those holes weren’t just practical—they held a memory of love and loss. Small things, like a chair, can carry deep meaning. When someone asks for something specific, there’s often a story behind it, a way to hold onto someone gone.
