Elmer nodded hello — we were the only ones at the cemetery — and he took that as an invitation to shuffle over, his generous smile emphasizing how glad he was to meet me. After some small talk, I was anxious to be alone so I could have a silent conversation with my grandmother and he obliged, walking away. This second encounter at the cemetery seemed uncanny. Sorry that I'd brushed him off the first time, I engaged the conversation, learning about his wife, who had passed in 1985. When he jumped to describing how he liked making cheesecake topped with strawberries, his blue eyes brightened. I found him charming. As I left, I told him I'd look forward to running into him again sometime. On my next visit to the cemetery, I was startled: on my grandmother's headstone hung a clear plastic baggie, attached with duct tape, holding a note. In sloppy cursive, above a phone number, it read: “I’m getting things to make cheesecake for you. Call me. Elmer.” Although I had never met an elderly man in the cemetery to receive a homemade cheesecake, I didn't hesitate. His generosity toward my family and me quickly progressed. He volunteered to plant flowers at my grandmother's grave to replace my artificial flowers. He started leaving surprise deliveries on our front porch every week: pumpkins for the kids, treats for our dog, birdseed and Elvis Presley commemorative coins. Gradually, he scaled back on both deliveries and expectations. Some people we pull into our orbit and others, like Elmer, make a surprise landing with flares. For five years, he and I remained friends. A year ago, at 87, he passed away...

What It Means

This is a placeholder explanation generated by the low-overhead model. It interprets "Elmer nodded hello — we were the only ones at the cemetery — and he took that as an invitation to shuffle over, his generous smile emphasizing how glad he was to meet me. After some small talk, I was anxious to be alone so I could have a silent conversation with my grandmother and he obliged, walking away. This second encounter at the cemetery seemed uncanny. Sorry that I'd brushed him off the first time, I engaged the conversation, learning about his wife, who had passed in 1985. When he jumped to describing how he liked making cheesecake topped with strawberries, his blue eyes brightened. I found him charming. As I left, I told him I'd look forward to running into him again sometime. On my next visit to the cemetery, I was startled: on my grandmother's headstone hung a clear plastic baggie, attached with duct tape, holding a note. In sloppy cursive, above a phone number, it read: “I’m getting things to make cheesecake for you. Call me. Elmer.” Although I had never met an elderly man in the cemetery to receive a homemade cheesecake, I didn't hesitate. His generosity toward my family and me quickly progressed. He volunteered to plant flowers at my grandmother's grave to replace my artificial flowers. He started leaving surprise deliveries on our front porch every week: pumpkins for the kids, treats for our dog, birdseed and Elvis Presley commemorative coins. Gradually, he scaled back on both deliveries and expectations. Some people we pull into our orbit and others, like Elmer, make a surprise landing with flares. For five years, he and I remained friends. A year ago, at 87, he passed away..." in the context of "Larissa Kosmos in an essay for Cleveland Magazine as published on their December 24, 2018, edition and entitled "A Mourning Man Makes Room For A Friend"" to mean that wisdom is timeless.