His name was Jake. He lived down the street from where I grew up. I remember him sitting with his wife on the front porch in two plastic folding chairs. I remember his lawn, always neat. I remember learning that his daughter had died young in a car accident. I remember hearing that he enjoyed gardening. I remember he flew the flag.
I would pass his house on the way to town. He wasn’t always there, but I always checked. When he was, we would exchange neighborly smiles. Sometimes I would wave, mouth a ‘hello’. There was never any obligation for anything more.
I didn’t visit home often when I was in college. Once I graduated and moved home after three and a half years, his wife had died. She might have passed before I left for college, I don’t quite remember. Nevertheless, when I was living at home again it was just him. He sat on the porch less, but I still felt myself glancing whenever I passed. The folding chairs were always sitting there, perfectly framing the front door. They were made of shiny, thick plastic that stretched across a lightweight metal frame. The ones you take to concerts in the park, but not to the beach. Each band was a different color. I always liked those chairs.
One day, in the early months of last summer, my parents and I saw him sitting with his son in the driveway. The folding chairs had been moved from the porch. He had a blanket on his lap. They were sitting in the sun. We learned that he was dying of cancer. His son did most of the talking. Jake had a peace about him.
My parents and I talked from the sidewalk, a distance of 20 feet between us. This was during quarantine. But I don’t think I ever came closer than 20 feet to him, so it felt natural, minus everyone else being there. He would be on the porch. I would be on the sidewalk.
My parents did most of the talking. I never know how to act in situations like that. I gave my smile, not wanting to say the wrong thing, and waited for the conversation to be through. We said goodbye and continued on our walk.
“Poor Jake,” my mother said. My dad made a sound of agreement and reminisced about all of the times Jake would generously offer him a ride back from church. I didn’t say anything. I had never seen Jake at the church growing up. I only saw him on his porch.
It nagged at me, in the weeks that followed, thinking of him in that house, waiting. I felt guilty almost.
A few weeks later I decided to draw him something. He had a nurse living in the house with him. I saw her sitting in the folding chairs on the porch every so often, talking loudly on the phone. I figured she would bring it in if I set it down.
I drew five flowers for him on notebook paper in marker and crayon. Each one a different color. It could have been done by a 6-year-old. I wrote a note on the back that said something to the effect of:
Hi Jake. I have been drawing flowers recently and I decided to draw some for you. I hope the sun is shining brightly through your windows. -Faith
I spent maybe 10 minutes on it, but it was something. I walked down the street to his house and nervously walked up the sidewalk for what I realized was the first time in my life. It felt intrusive. I remember hoping that no one was watching me.
I carefully wove the drawing through the folding chair on the left side. I think his wife would always sit in that one. I went back down the sidewalk and made my way towards town, looking back at one point to make sure it hadn’t blown away. I don’t remember there being any wind that day.
In the coming days, I couldn’t stop thinking about how I should have only drawn four flowers. One for him, his wife, his daughter and his son. I thought about the possibility that I didn’t make him smile this time. The not knowing ate at me.
Eventually, I forced myself to come to peace with the idea that the fifth flower was myself. Or even that he didn’t pay mind to the number of flowers and just saw it as a nice gesture.
I vowed not to tell anyone about this. So I guess this is me breaking that promise. I’ve always thought that sharing certain things cheapens them.
On my walk back from town, I took the long way. I didn’t want to see if the drawing had been taken in or not.
Within a week’s time, I learned that Jake had passed away. It’s very possible that he never saw the drawing. I kept imagining his son finding it on the bedside table weeks later and being upset by it. That made me feel quite bad. Then I imagined that it had blown away, never making it into the house. Or that the nurse had brought it in, but left it on the kitchen table. Or that she showed it to him, but he was on too much pain medicine to understand.
But there is always the chance that it was taped up on the wall where Jake could see it. And that the sun shone on it for a morning, or two.
