Losing a Neighbor

He was a sweet man. He gave me his home-grown habanero peppers two summers ago and I dried them slowly in my oven slowly and I still have them in a jar. He told me he was German and Mexican and grew up as a Texan. We would chat when I walked by or ran into him walking at the cemetery.

Last week he didn't feel well. By the time they got to his gallbladder sepsis had taken hold but he hadn't experienced any gallbladder pain. He had been in Vietnam, a tank driver. In the war he had been shot in the lower torso. A bullet had plowed through him and came out the other side. The nerves in that location were dead.

He was a sweet man. Two summers ago he gave me his home-grown habanero peppers and I dried them slowly in my oven to preserve them. I still have them in a jar on the shelf in my kitchen. He told me he was German and Mexican and grew up as a Texan. We would chat when I walked by his yellow house and when I ran into him walking at the cemetery. Rest in Peace, Louie.