Much earlier in the quarantine Ben and his companion wrote letters to every resident of a nearby residential home for the elderly. They included jokes in each hand addressed envelope. It was a friendly way to spend an afternoon. Plus it provided a fresh audience for his riddles. 

 

Since neither John nor I have been to our office in several weeks, we have not collected the mail there. We still venture to the post office twice a week for missives with a stamp from the world at large. But the pile at work was growing enough that a colleague decided to leave the pile by our back door. 

 

Most of it was for Benjamin. 

 

Over a dozen kindly people returned the favor and hand wrote a letter to Ben. All of them included humor. He was pleased to receive so much attention, and read each one twice. He relayed some of the jokes aloud to me. We all laughed. 

 

I am tickled to think that these subtle connections have sprung up from the far side of this small town where the average cake has eighty candles, to our house where the median is closer to twenty. Some of those residents have stories from past world events such as the war, or the depression, as well as personal losses of great importance. Yet here they are, taking a few minutes to scribe a letter to a young man with a shorter life span, in order to bring him joy. 

 

One of the notes included this riddle, which has no answer. 

 

"Why do we drive in a parkway and park in a driveway?"

 

I have no answers for other pressing questions either. Which is oddly reassuring.