There’s a heaviness about him. It’s like he’s being weighed down or sheathed in a blanket of sadness or melancholy. But he’s a pleasant man, he’s very friendly and always stops to talk to me when we’re coming in and out of our garages or taking out the trash, or when we just happen to run into one another on the street. I once saw him sitting alone with his garage open, his head was down and his face was resting in his palms. I couldn’t tell if he was upset, so I walked across and asked him if he was all right. He said he was but I could see that he wasn’t because he didn’t smile or really fully look at me. I asked him if everything was okay with his wife. He nodded back. Again, it clearly wasn’t. He seems like such a nice man. He takes such good care of his yard. He always smiles and waves across to me when he’s tending to the grass. They don’t have loud parties or create any noise, even their son. Before my husband passed, he would sometimes have to retrieve the son’s basketball after it rolled out of their garage and across the street landing on our curb. They really are the perfect neighbors.