Ralph

Ralph led a difficult life, characterized by the deep-set lines mapping his face. His hands were knobby and worn with evidence of callouses from holding the implements he used to garden. He loved gardening. Seeing the tiny shoots of new life breaking through the soft, dark earth seemed to him to be evidence of a fresh start to life. Watching the plant grow and then blossom into a full-blown flower gave Ralph a sense of completeness.

Ralph was wearing his old suspenders, as he always did. More than holding up his trousers, they also gave him a holding on point when talking to the passing neighbor. His shirt sleeves were rolled to midway between elbow and wrist and the red flannel was beginning to show wear at the cuffs, so he rolled them.

The hat he wore was encrusted with dust. At one time it had been a fancy black fedora, now it showed the passage of years and the sweat stains of a hardworking man.

My grandmother remembers Ralph from when she was a little girl. Today, we all remember him. The funeral home was packed and even more people were at the graveside service. I stayed until everyone left but the people from the funeral home. Ralph was my friend. It was the least I could do.