Funny how the world works.
Just the other day, I found myself thinking about my neighbor John. He’s in his 90s, and I hadn’t seen him in a while. You know how it is when someone elderly hasn’t been around for a bit, the mind goes places. You hope they’re okay, but that little shadow of worry sneaks in.
I don’t know John all that well. Our relationship has been stitched together by small, neighborly kindnesses.
For a time, Surley and I would drop the Star Tribune at his door in the mornings. A few months ago, he stopped getting the paper. As those little routines tend to do, that small thread of connection quietly unraveled. We haven’t crossed paths in a while.
John has always struck me as one of the good ones. Soft-spoken. Sweet. A gentle presence with a love for classic cars that’s stuck with him for decades.
Cut from the Same Cloth
And that’s where the memory of my grandfather, Garfield, comes rolling in.
Grandpa Garfield was a mechanic in Benson, Minnesota—worked at the local Ford garage for years. The smell of motor oil, the sound of a well-tuned engine… those were as natural to him as breathing. He didn’t just love cars—he understood them. Working on them, talking about them, driving them. Engines were his language. He spoke it with a quiet and steady kindness. This kindness settled into your bones if you spent enough time around him.
Last fall, I spotted John outside in the parking lot with one of his cars—he has a few. He was working on something under the hood, tools spread out on the ground, a rag in his hands. Dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, completely in his element.
And for just a moment, I saw my grandpa.
The way John moved felt familiar. The gentle focus felt familiar. The way he spoke when I called out a hello felt familiar. Two men, decades apart, sharing a love that never really leaves the hands. The kind of love that smells like grease and perseverance.
I truly believe Grandpa Garfield and John would’ve gotten along famously. They’re cut from the same cloth wrenches in one pocket, stories in the other.
And the Universe Listens
Surley and I were coming in from the patio. tonight Who did we run into but John by the elevator. Upright. Moving. Still smiling.
The universe, apparently, had heard my unspoken thoughts and decided to drop a little reassurance right in front of me.
Surley, of course, was hoping John might have a cookie in his pocket. He didn’t, but he was happy enough with the pet and the hello. Tail wagging, body practically vibrating with joy.
As for me? I was just happy to see that sweet old man still here. Still a part of this building. Still himself.
It’s strange how these small moments, the ones that sneak up on you, can carry so much weight. A hallway hello. A familiar face. A quiet whisper from the universe saying,
“Hey, I see you. I know what you were thinking.”
We move through life thinking big thoughts. We chase big answers. Sometimes, it’s the smallest encounters that fill in the gaps. That remind us of who we love. Of who we’ve been. Of who’s still around.
Sometimes the universe doesn’t need to shout. Sometimes it just smiles at you near the elevator.