Elderly Neighbor

I met many interesting , and sometime puzzeling people while growing up on the small  farm in Searsport, Maine.  This poem is about on unforgetable man:


                         The path behind the ledge led to    
                              the field that belonged to the old man
                          who had once tilled it for a garden
                             When his wife was still alive.
                           He wasn't really unfriendly, but he
                              was not used to children as he
                           had never had any of his  own.
                               My father would go there to split
                          wood  for him, and Grampa Les
                                would go to help him stack it inside
                           for winter.  I only saw the kitchen
                                 of his house once when my mother
                           sent me  there with some soup, because
                                 he had been feeling poorly.
                           He told me to thank my mother
                                 for her kindness, but gave me no words
                            of encouragement to stay and
                                 keep him company for a spell.
                             I didn't like or dislike the old man,
                                 but I did feel a sense of loss
                            when my father told me  that he had died.
                                 Perhaps, not solving the many mysteries
                              I knew existed, gave me the feeling
                                  that part of my life was incomplete.