For the entire 35 years you lived next door to my family, you kept to yourself and didn't let anyone know much about you and yet we knew enough about you to construct a picture for your family after your death. After all, 35 years is a long time and you get to know a few things.

When we moved there from the city, you helped us move in. Like dad, you were 35 years old, young and strong. Together the two of you moved in all the heavy appliances. We'd talk to you occasionally across the fence and we got to know Pat a little. I remember mom used to borrow Alka-Seltzer from her. She was always nice to us. Then one day she left  and we never saw her again. You were all by yourself with the dogs, Thunder, Lightning, Sad and Lonely.

On Saturday nights we could hear country music coming from the house. You obviously enjoyed the solitude. You took care of your place and the horses and you worked and that was it. That was enough for you.

When you weren't at work, you were usually outside working. Most of the time you were shirtless, wearing a ball cap, shorts and tennis shoes, and you'd be on that tractor cutting grass, trimming trees, grooming the horses, washing the truck, or something that kept you outside most of the day. I recall you had quite a tan from working outside. For a while you were busy building that cabin. There were times you and dad were both working outside and you'd take a break to talk at the fence behind his shop. You were always nice to dad but you never wanted to be friends, that much was apparent. It wasn't us though, we realized later you didn't want to be friends with anyone. And so we respected that. We gave you your space and you did your thing and we did ours and there was never any animosity or unfriendliness between us.

We never recalled anyone visiting you and you never spoke of friends or family. Of course I did not learn until you were gone that you had at least one friend and you didn't talk to your family. As it turns out, though we hardly knew you, we may have known you better than anyone else. At least we knew enough to tell your family that you were a nice to us, kind to animals, you worked hard, and you were quiet and never bothered anyone.  All that's left to tell about you is little things here and there, memories of you in passing over the course of 35 years. It doesn't begin to fill in the blank pages of your life but at least it tells your family something about you. And when you know very little, anything helps.

I was glad to meet your sister-in-law only I wish it'd been under better circumstances and not your death. It felt good to tell her about you. She didn't know you and so I felt she needed to know there was more to you than your misanthrope and isolation.

When you made the decision to end your life, you could not possibly know how it would affect the few people who knew you. For a while I felt guilty that we didn't reach out more but it's likely you would not have been receptive. You likely would've asserted your need for privacy and we would've respected that. You can only really get to know someone if they let you and it took 35 years to know the little we did.

In the end you were sick, and obviously very tired. You'd lived 70 years and life had taken its toll on you. It took a while for me to come to terms with your death. I kept thinking about the man who was once young and vibrant and how thirty years ago he never could've imagined his life would arrive at the point where he felt the need to end it. If only that young man had been given a brief vision of the future, what would he have done differently?  I guess it doesn't matter, for now you are gone and all questions are irrelevant. All that is left behind of you is the cabin you built with your own two hands which sits empty, all the things you'd collected over the years, now gone.

And of course, the memories.

In the months just after you died, when I was visiting mom, I'd walk over to the fence line and just stare at the cabin. It was quiet save for the occasional barn owl and whippoorwill and the rustling of the leaves from the soft evening breezes wafting through those tall trees that were just seedlings three decades ago.  I'd lean on the fence, close my eyes and turn my head just so...and then I thought I heard music---that old country music you used to listen to--coming from within the cabin. Of course there was no music but it made me smile for a moment knowing there once was.

In the end, our lives are a compilation of our experiences and the people we meet. Those things, no matter how big or small, help make us who we are. Without even realizing it, you were one of the many threads, woven together to make up the fabric that is my life. Those threads---those people and experiences, no matter how big or small---all matter, for they have made me who I am.

I wish that you'd known this when you were alive, but I'll say it now.

You mattered.