I can't remember if this really happened.

When I was about twelve years old, I met an old man named Jim.
Jim Staffinson.
Jim was a lonely man who lived in a nursing home. His children had put him there and then moved away to other states, and rarely kept contact with him anymore. That was okay though, because Jim didn't really remember that he had kids, and he didn't really remember that he ever had another home, either.
I can't quite recall how I met Jim, but I remember learning his name from an old woman who told me how lonely he was, so I decided to talk to him.
We had a long conversation about his life and about my life, and he smiled and laughed like he had not a care in the world. When I think about it, he probably was just amused that a young kid like myself would have any interest in him. When it was time for me to go, he made me promise to call him or come back and visit him or write him a letter. I promised I would and had full intention of keeping that promise.

I never spoke with him again.

About a year later I saw his face in the obituaries.