Maybe that is why I remember it so clearly.
Ezra had lived next door for years. We waved from our driveways, exchanged quick hellos, and went back to our separate lives. I knew his name, but not much else. I could not even have told you the color of his front door without checking.
That morning, I saw him struggling with four grocery bags in the trunk of his car. One slipped, caught on his elbow, and nearly hit the pavement.
I walked over before I really thought about it.
“Let me grab those.”
“Oh, you don’t have to,” he said.
“I know. Come on.”
He didn’t argue after that.
