My neighbour

A story about my neighbour when I was young. This does not imply anything about my age

The first time I realized my neighbor, Mr. Halley, was actually kind of interesting was because of a squirrel.

Up until that point, I thought he was just some grumpy old man who sat on his porch all day judging people walking their dogs. The kind of guy that yells about garbage cans being left out too long or kids riding bikes too fast past his driveway. Classic old man behavior.

But then one afternoon, walking home from school, I saw him out there messing with this tiny wooden box strapped to a tree in his yard. And perched right next to him, bold as anything, was this fat, scruffy squirrel just staring him down like they were in the middle of some intense negotiation.

I stood there a second too long, I guess, because Mr. Halley looked over and went, “You ever seen a squirrel steal a granola bar right out of your hand?”

I didn’t know what to say to that. I just shook my head.

“They’re little criminals,” he said, dead serious. “But you gotta respect it.”

After that, I started noticing him more. Like, properly noticing. He didn’t just sit around doing nothing — he was always fiddling with stuff. Building birdhouses that looked like tiny motels. Feeding stray cats like he was running an underground soup kitchen for them. He had windchimes made out of soda cans. He patched his fence with license plates. It was weird, but in a weirdly cool way.

One day I asked him why he fed the squirrels if they were such criminals.

He kind of snorted. “Everybody’s gotta eat,” he said.

And that’s when it clicked for me — Mr. Halley wasn’t mean. He was just done with pretending to care about normal people stuff. He cared about squirrels and birds and cats that nobody else paid attention to. And maybe that made him weird, but honestly? It also made him probably the most alive person on our whole boring street.

Eventually I started sitting on the curb near his yard after school, just talking. Or, well, mostly listening. He told me about how he used to work on fishing boats when he was young. He said the ocean could swallow a person without even blinking. He said people who weren’t afraid of it were either lying or stupid.

One time he gave me this rusty little pocket knife — said it was junk, but it had been his for years.

“It’s useless,” he told me, “but sometimes it’s good to carry useless things. Reminds you life ain’t all about sharp edges.”

I still have that knife in my drawer.

Mr. Halley passed away last winter. Quiet. No drama. No big funeral. Just gone.

But every spring now, a ridiculous amount of squirrels crowd around that same tree in his yard. Like they’re waiting for him to come back with sunflower seeds or peanut butter crackers. And maybe that sounds dumb, but it makes me smile every time.

People always act like legacies have to be these big, loud, important things.

But honestly? Sometimes it’s just a rusty knife, a patched-up fence, and a yard full of squirrels who miss their guy.

And somehow, that feels kind of perfect.