What happens in the video
At an outdoor memorial, an older man in a dark coat and medals balances a bouquet against his chest and steadies himself with a cane. A uniformed guard raises his palm and tells him the area is closed to him. “My friend’s name is on that wall,” the man says. The guard reaches toward the bouquet. “Don’t take his flowers.”
“Only family can enter today.” A woman in a cream jacket stands beside them holding a black folder. “Why is the wreath-laying ceremony stopped?” she asks. The guard answers, “He doesn’t have a family pass.” She opens the folder. That’s where the footage leaves them.
Continuation:
The woman found an empty line beside the name Daniel Price. Every other family had filled in the name of someone who would carry flowers. Beside Daniel, somebody had penciled a question mark.
“Did you serve with him?” she asked.
“Only two years,” the old man said. “Then I lived next door to him for forty-six. Which bit do you want?”
The guard’s hand dropped. For the first time that morning, the old man smiled. His name was Eddie. The roses were from the patch between their two driveways. Neither man had ever agreed on whose side of the line the roots were growing. Daniel used to charge him a penny a flower. In the fold of the paper around the stems, Eddie had tucked six pennies.
The woman looked toward the rows of chairs. “Would you like me to introduce you?”
“I’d rather do this without the microphone, if that’s all right.”
It took Eddie a while to reach the wall. Halfway there the paper split, and the pennies bounced across the stone. The sound was absurdly loud. One rolled under the guard’s shoe. He bent down, gathered all six, and carried them on his open palm the rest of the way.
Eddie laid the roses beneath Daniel’s name. “Paid in full, you old thief,” he whispered. A laugh caught somewhere in his throat. He stood there until it passed.
Afterwards, the woman asked what she should write on the empty line. Eddie considered the question. He’d spent the morning trying to think of an impressive word for what he and Daniel had been to each other. He remembered an ordinary Tuesday when Daniel had let himself in, changed a dead bulb above the stove, and left without mentioning it. Forty-six years were full of Tuesdays like that.
“Neighbor,” he said. “That’ll do.”
On his way out, the guard offered him the last penny. It had stuck in the seam of his glove. Eddie nodded back toward the wall. Together they made the slow trip a second time. Neither of them suggested leaving Daniel a penny short.
