Freddy, fiftiesh,

lustrous black hair, luxuriant moustache,

a trace of Costa Rica in his speech,

stood by the front door enjoying the sun,

greeted residents and passersby,

made a fuss over their dogs.

“Hello, Mrs Mills. How are you today?”

I liked that he didn’t use my first name.

Some people, hoping to draw you in,

complain about their health.

Not Freddy. But one day he said,

“Mrs Mills, I’m food for the worms.”

He was pleased to have found

a metaphor to announce his demise.

After time in the hospital he returned.

It was clear he could not continue.

He rested on a bench

as I passed with a suitcase.

“Good-bye, Mrs Mills.”

He smiled without getting up.

“Have a nice trip.”

After so many years,

a hug, a hand on the shoulder,

a kiss on the cheek, warm eye contact

were what the situation required.

Like Orpheus, I looked over my shoulder,

fixing him silently in memory as he receded.

I should have said,

“Goodbye, Freddy, I will miss you.”

But I didn’t.

Neighborhood dogs still stop at the door,

tails wagging, noses questing

in the direction of the lobby,

awaiting Freddy’s affection and a treat.

He knew all their names, too.