One of the neighbors had his funeral last weekend.
We always called him "Uncle Goose", because he had had a big white goose at home and loved to walk it around. We chatted about raising pets, his job (a contractor -- he was very proud of what he did) and our jobs, my and his cars... I still remember his plate number! But his being busy working prevented us from knowing more about each other; most of the times we met while we were behind the wheels and could only nod to each other.
During the preparation of the parting ceremony, his photo was facing my house for several days. Because of the distance and of my poor eyesight, I doubted if it was his father but dared not approach to prove anything. Finally I decided to find the obituary notices in the newspaper to know the age of the deceased, and I couldn't believe my own eyes.
My husband didn't seem so emotional as I was. But one day when we were leaving home and saw the photo of Uncle Goose again, he sighed, "His highway hasn't even completed!" I answered, "And he just married off his daughter last year or the year before..."
I dare not ask about the cause of his death; he was only in his late fifties. And I never got to know his name until the last day...
Uncle Goose, R.I.P.