Ultimately, it’s the contents of his shopping wagon that fill my eyes with tears.

A paltry wagon, filled sparingly with instant soups, canned vegetables, saltine crackers. I don’t mean to pry, but he is right in front of me in the snaking line to the register. He’s my neighbor, in the next building over, and together but separate, we wait our turns. Together but separate, we live our lives.

His cart tells the story of this widower, alone in the world. There are no children to speak of, no sounds to accompany him through the endless nights. All he has are the sounds of other people’s children, ringing of laughter and play, echoes that waft in through the window on a breeze.

He has not been widowed for long, less than a year. I barely knew his wife; when we moved into this apartment complex, she was already bedridden, ill beyond recognition. She lived her final few years at home; I saw her only once in that period.

I clearly remember the ambulances outside the building on that fateful day. I don’t know the exact details — what I do know is that everyone in the neighborhood was whispering her name, murmuring Tehillim for her recovery. Less than 48 hours later, the haunting voice of the ram kol was heard, announcing her levayah, blasting the information through the winding streets of our neighborhood.

Through stories told by the husband at shivah, I learned that they had married later in life and had been together for over 30 years. It had not been an easy life for her, and more than anything, she yearned for children. When she realized it was not to be, she opened an information gemach to help others going through the same challenges she had: information on specialized doctors, segulos, different treatments.

She kept abreast of the latest technological advances; even if it was too late for her, she felt it was important to pass on the information to others. She was often one of the first people called when there was good information to be shared, and her heart rejoiced with the knowledge that she had helped bring numerous children into the world.

But now, the widower remains alone, with only his canned vegetables and saltine crackers for company. The apartment creaks with ghosts of potential. Laughter may waft in from outside, but has never once filled his own home.

What must it be like to carry that burden, in a neighborhood filled with vitality, with children?

(Excerpted from Family First, Issue 612)