After retiring from the postal service, he’d spent his Tuesdays and Thursdays delivering groceries, repairing furniture, and helping older residents get to medical appointments.
He loved that place.
He often returned home exhausted but smiling, with another story about someone he’d helped.
Since his passing, I’d rarely visited.
But that afternoon, I found myself walking through its familiar front doors.
Clare, the center’s director, looked up from a box of donated food.
“Joanne! What brings you here?”
“Some groceries,” I replied. “My dinner plans changed.”
She studied my expression.
Then she quietly reached for her coat.
“Come on. Let’s see what you’ve brought.”
We carried the sealed groceries and fruit inside. Clare explained that they couldn’t accept certain refrigerated items under their food-handling rules.
When we finished, I hesitated by the door.
“Do you need any help sorting donations?”
Clare smiled.
“We always need help.”
