a mystery gift

Amid the routine of daily life, sometimes strange things happen that make me pause. This is one of them:
On Monday, I had a group of new friends over for a Mexican cookout. Great people all; we laughed and told stories and played the Ungame. At some point there was a mention of my lack of four wheels... which is why the next day, when I came home from work and found a model Harley Davidson motorcycle, complete in original packaging, by the back door, I thought it had to be someone from the FFH group. But after a few phone calls, I realized I was either being very convincingly lied to, or none of my visitors had any clue what I was talking about. Chalk it up as one of life's little mysteries...
The next day, 10 minutes after getting home, I had a visitor. At the front door was an ancient little man seated on one of those golf-cart like contraptions for the feeble, complete with wire basket on the front. "Can I help you?" - I was thoroughly confused. "Did you find that motorcycle I left by your door?" he asked. Well yes, I did. Meet Mr. Morris. As he explained to me from his seat a foot off the ground, a while back he ordered one Harley model for one of his grandkids, and they sent him six. So when he saw that I rode a "motorcycle", he thought he'd give me one. "I realized that I should have left a note or something so you would know who left it." He lives in the Pepto-pink house across the street. His wife died 5 years ago. His son comes to visit every week or so, but he lives all alone. He turned 90 in February. He has a pacemaker, the battery died a while back and he had to have surgery. "Are you a doctor too?" No, I'm a lawyer, my housemate's a doctor. "Oh, well I sure hope you don't sue doctors or nurses. I've been in the hospital a lot, and they always take real good care of me. Please don't sue any doctors. No one should sue doctors. You know, there was one nurse who took good care of me. She went to Germany and died in a train accident. I found out later that she was single. Such a nice woman, if I had known she was single I would have asked her to marry me. You know, I'm 90 years old. I lived through the Depression. My dad died when I was 15. I shouldn't still be alive, but I am. Sometimes I wish I weren't, I'm ready to go. I shouldn't say that though, I'm sorry."
Mr. Morris and I (well, mostly him) talked for a good half hour, him seated on his little scooter on the porch. I was so touched by this sweet slightly sad man who is remarkably alert for being 90 years old. I picture him sitting inside his pink house watching the neighborhood go by through his living room windows, the kids every day on their bikes, the guys next door with their paint business truck, the people out walking in the evenings. And I resolved to make some time to go visit him sometimes. To return his simple, inexplicable and slightly bizarre offering of friendship.