His Name

I lost a neighbor last night. His name was Jack, and we really didn’t know each other very well.

Jack Adams and I were never more than acquaintances although our apartments were side by side. He had relocated to the second floor of our residence shortly after Covid invaded America’s world.

That was also when Jack lost his wife and I lost my sister.

Soon after the dreaded coronavirus edged slowly away, and isolation ended, I became aware I had a new neighbor. There were three tiny American flags tucked into the nameplate on apartment 241.

One morning my new neighbor and I met while waiting for the elevator. I timidly asked “Does my music bother you?”

I don’t have wild parties, but during the pandemic, I began to lean nightly on James Galway. The sound of his magical flute began to lure me into dreamland and I was reluctant to abandon that comfort.

Jack laughingly replied, “Not if my ballgames don’t bother you.”

And thereafter, if and when our paths crossed, he was always quick to exchange a smile and a brief word or two,

Jack stood like a ramrod never losing the military posture that identified his long career serving our county. And always with a quiet smile, his presence reminded me of heroes of yore.

This morning the flags were missing from his nameplate. When I walked into the mailroom, I saw a notice that Jack Adams had left this world, quietly.

He departed with the courage he wore like armor throughout a long lifetime.

I will miss my neighbor, but will not forget his example of how to age well with dignity.