Around this time of year I think of a neighbor my family had when I was growing up: Jack, a round old man, kind of shaped like a jack-o’-lantern, with just as many teeth. He sat on the stoop of his ’20s brick bungalow, in a blue button-down and suspenders, scowling at kids by default (resting scowl face). The bush in front of his house was home to a family of raccoons. The raccoons came and went from the premises and tended to them more than Jack did.
We never knew much about him, other than that he lived alone. And at some point he came to symbolize loneliness for me. A particular wintry, sun-is-gone, Chicago type of loneliness. Something adjacent to Charlie Brown’s nighttime Christmastime. When the city is so dark and quiet that the stars seem to make noise, however few we can see.
I don’t know if Jack was generally sad or happy. Maybe he loved his life. But I find myself wishing he were around, so we could check.