The elderly man that I visit is getting more comfortable with me. For the first eight months we enjoyed each other's company, reading the Word, chatting about news around town, and reminiscing about his life. I enjoy it. 

But recently he has allowed me to help him. First it was refilling the bird feeder on the window. We both watch their flittering visits, and seeds encourage that. I brought the feeder in because the rain had soaked it, and realized that one of the suction cups was missing. I looked on the path, and in the kitchen but could not find it. 

"I seem to have lost part of the feeder," I admitted. 

"No, it's in the ivy under the window." 

I went back outside, and rummaged through the leaves. There it was. I imagined his dilemma when it fell off, and he was unable to retrieve it. 

The next week he had his coat on when he opened the door. 

"I was hoping that you could drive behind me while I take my car in for repairs." 

We drove in tandem to the shop where he has gone for many years, and after giving them the keys he climbed into my passenger seat. 

"It is an old car, and if the problem is expensive, I may just give up driving." 

There was sadness in his voice. Then he remarked on the gray sky, and began to recite a Frost poem about it. When he finished, I chimed in with fragments of Two Roads Diverged, and he filled it in. We went on to Whose Woods These Are, and I marveled at this man who taught English to high school boys for decades. 

"Shall we swing by the post office to get your mail?" I offered. Where we live there is no street delivery. 

"Yes, that would be nice." His willingness to accept more help, even in this small way, felt like trust. 

We came home with his pile of mail, which was much bigger than mine. Mindfully, he sorted, opening each envelope with a sharp tool that he keeps in a desk. As each one turned out to be a request for money, he shook his head in disappointment. 

"This one gave me a nickel," he smiled. It was a marketing tool to ignite generosity, I suppose. He slipped it in his pocket. 

"This one gave me a stamp!" he was amused. He put the stamp in his desk. 

A larger envelope was last. It held two pairs of socks. I could not quite imagine him sporting such flamboyant colors above his respectable shoes. 

"I will take these back to the post office and leave them on the table. Someone will want them."

Benjamin had recently taken an interest in decorative socks, and I asked if I could give them to him. He was pleased. 

I remembered a time when my mother lived with us. She had long since given up driving, and her lifelong tendency toward generosity had been thwarted. She had nothing left to give. A friend came to visit her, and as she stood to leave, my mother handed her the flowers on the table. The ones I had brought her a week ago. They were droopy, but they were all she had. 

By the time you are ready to hand back the car keys, you have had to face other losses. I am not quite there, but it seems to be baked into the rhythm of life. Yet there are other gifts, as unpretentious as a few couplets, that have their own deep value. 

They are definitely worth more than a nickel.