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SUNDAY JOURNAL

The enduring grasp of friendship

By JOHN M. ANGELINI
Published May 28, 2006

I first met Bob in an official capacity. He was a member of my subdivision's board of directors, a friendly enough neighbor who assured me that the small retention pond behind my property was the association's responsibility.

We met occasionally, either on the street or at the subdivision meetings. I knew neither his wife nor members of his family. Yet we responded to each other like two old friends. It may seem odd, but I tried not to define this association and simply accepted it.

One day I heard that Bob wasn't well. There were hushed words about an ailment that forced him to resign from the board. The next time I saw him, he was no longer the same self-assured person I first

met. He seemed older than someone in his 50s, his complexion ashen, his movements hesitant. Yet, his speech was fluid and understandable, and betrayed no sense of ill health. I would soon learn that Bob had cancer. What kind, and how advanced, were facts not needed.

Then it would be my turn. After triple-bypass heart surgery, my recovery included daily walks along my 170-foot-long sidewalk and back. Eventually I walked a couple of blocks to the end of Bob's property. I admired the French-style design of his house with its steep gabled roof, and his well-manicured landscape. In time, my wife Liz and I walked beyond Bob's place. More and more frequently he would be standing in his driveway, as though waiting for us. We always stopped to chat for a few minutes about unimportant things: the neighborhood, the weather, the garden. On the subject of Bob's health, there was silence.

"How do you feel?"

"I feel fine."

Liar, I knew, but Bob never solicited sympathy and I was not to offer any.

I pretended not to notice his sunken cheeks, loss of weight and the pained look on his face during our chats. Nevertheless, he was always happy to see Liz and me and smiled broadly at my bizarre sense of humor, which helped relieve my own sad feelings. There were days when Bob would not be stationed in his usual post. My wife and I looked at each other and wondered if his time had come. We hoped not.

One chilly day Bob, Liz and I were standing in his driveway admiring the band of clouds hovering over a stand of pine trees whose needles glistened. I remember stuffing my hand deep into my pockets to protect them from the wind. Bob gave me a quizzical look. "Please wait," he said, heading slowly toward his front door. We stood there and quietly waited. He soon returned, holding something rolled up in his hand. I didn't know what to expect. Bob stretched out his hand and said:

"Here, John!"

I held this soft object, realizing that it was a pair of gloves.

"What, Bob?" I asked, puzzled, and thanked him for the gesture.

He looked at me and said that Liz and I were the only neighbors who ever stopped to chat. The gloves were his gift for our time and friendship.

"It's our pleasure, Bob," was all I could muster.

During that brief moment I sensed that his end was approaching. I remembered reading once that terminally ill patients have a tendency to part with their possessions with "a warm hand," as the saying goes.

It wasn't long after that Bob died.

Now his gloves are treasured and kept in a special place on my hat shelf in the hall closet. I look forward to another winter, to days where I will slowly push my fingers into those mitts and into the memories of that gentle friendship.

These days I drive past Bob's house and I imagine him standing alone in his driveway, unafraid of death.

John M. Angelini, 84, is a painter and writer living in Hudson.

[Last modified May 26, 2006, 10:28:25]