The Steam Grill and Porch

I saw her car pull up to the mailboxes this morning—an older model with a front grill like a steam locomotive’s cattle catcher. Not the kind of thing you forget.

She’s a neighbor, though I don’t know her name. Seen her around the neighborhood a few times, always alone. She keeps to herself mostly.

Today, though, was different.

I’d just stepped out onto the porch with my second cup of morning coffee, the sun barely warming the August air, when I heard her voice carry across the street like a wounded animal. Not words at first, just that raw sound grief makes when it forgets its manners.

Then clear enough for me to make out: “I don’t have any family and no friends!”

She was shouting it—sobbing and shouting all at once. Sitting there in the driver’s seat, window rolled down, slapping the steering wheel like it had done her wrong.

Maybe it had. Some days feel that way.

I recognized the tattoos on her arm when I walked to her car window—Sailor Jerry-style ink, a golden anchor laid over an unfurled American flag on her left bicep. That’s Navy.

Either she or someone close to her, and military folks don’t usually advertise it unless it means something. There’s always a story behind a tattoo like that, or two or three.

Buddy, my dog, perked up his ears and looked across the road, sensing something wasn’t right. Animals always know before people do.

I set my mug down, scratched Buddy’s head, and walked across the road. Not fast.

Just steady, like the way you approach a spooked horse. She glanced up, eyes red, jaw clenched.

“Ma’am, are you okay?” I asked gently.

“No,” she said, raw and honest, and I respected her for that.

“Would you like to come over and sit a spell on the porch?” I offered. “Got some good coffee and a dog that loves a scratch behind the ears. I’m a decent listener, too. You don’t have to talk, but you wouldn’t have to be alone, either.”

She shook her head. “No thank you, sir,” she said politely, with a kind of finality that told me not to press.

I nodded and stepped back. “Alright,” I said. “But the offer stands.”

She put the car in gear and drove the half block to her house. Slowly. Like someone who didn’t quite trust the road, or maybe didn’t trust herself on it.

Back on the porch, Buddy rested his chin on my boot, eyes following the street. I sipped my coffee and thought about all the people carrying things too heavy for one set of shoulders.

We live close to each other, but most of us don’t know a damn thing about the stories two doors down. That car with the cattle catcher grill will stick in my mind now—not because it’s peculiar, but because of who drives it.

Next time I see her, I might wave, might offer a cup again. That’s all a man can do sometimes—keep the porch open, a warm mug of coffee at the ready, and hope they know they’re not as alone as they feel.

Buddy gave a quiet huff and closed his eyes, and we waited.