This morning as I sipped my coffee and gazed out at the garden coming back to life, I thought about my next door neighbor, wondered what it would be like to wake to the realization: I will bury my wife today. I can hear their little waterfall outside my window over the sound of my washer and dryer and the resident Eurasian collared dove, cooing its usual morning song.
And then I remembered a night years ago. I had bicycled home from work after a concert, very late, and I was just pulling up to the garage when saw a dark figure approach from the end of the alley. It was the crusty codger who lives several houses down. The first thing out of his mouth was, “Woody died.”
We talked a bit, and I felt a softening, a sympathy for this man who has always been unkind to me. All his neighbors from that first generation, the couples who moved in after the war when these cracker box houses were slapped up—they are all gone. And then, as he walked away, not looking at me, he said, “You know what that means. I’m next.”
This afternoon I will go to the memorial for this woman I hardly knew. She was only a year older than my ex-husband, and I remember when her youngest son was in college. He can’t be much older than my firstborn. All around us, people are living out the drama of their lives, every house holding an entire world of stories.
It is a lovely day to be alive.