There’s a hole in the fabric of downtown, a void. An empty place.

Tom Chalmers died last week.

I barely knew him. But he was part of the scenery and the flavor of everyday. He worked in maintenance at the Bangs Center, and my every interaction with him – so brief but unquantifiably numerous – was a pleasure. He was warm and genuine and the kind of person whose “How are you doing today?” truly made you feel good.

Beyond greetings, we mostly talked about the Red Sox, football and the weather. He’d be sitting on the bench outside when I was coming or going, or he’d come in to sweep or rearrange the room where the Meals-on-Wheels distribution is set-up, or he’d be raking leaves or shoveling snow, or I’d see him in a hallway. It was an in-passing micro-friendship – chit-chat, a wave. Just one of those things you hardly pay attention to.

Until it’s gone.

How many of those kinds of interactions do we have with people – those we don’t know well or at all, but whom we see or deal with on a regular basis? So many people are part of our routines and as such, little parts of our lives.

The loss of a loved one looms large for family and friends, obviously. But that loss ripples through a wider community in countless less obvious ways.

Tom is gone, and I can hardly fathom that, but his presence still fills all the places I’m used to it being, and I’ll keep thinking of him there and then. And I hope I will be appreciating more all the other people who are tiny elements of my daily life. They are my personal community, and the loss of one has reminded me of the preciousness of all.

Rest in peace, Tom.

-- Stephanie O’Keeffe