I noticed the silence next door. My neighbor is 84. His wife passed away last year. He has no children. His lights stopped coming on in the evening. His blinds stayed closed. He was fading away right in front of me. I couldn't just watch. So I started making an extra portion at dinner. Just a little more pasta. One more pork chop. I walked it over. He opened the door. He looked surprised. He looked thin. "I made too much," I lied. "I hate wasting food. Can you help me out?" We sat on his porch. We ate. We watched the cars go by. We have done this every night for a month. Yesterday, he put his fork down. "I was ready to go," he whispered. "I was just waiting to sleep and not wake up. But then you knocked. Now I have to stay up to see what you cooked." I held back tears. It costs me nothing. A little flour. A little time. But it gave him a tomorrow. The best medicine for loneliness is a knock on the door. Credit - shihaan Hussain /Facebook