I look out the north window at my neighbor’s house, a twin to my own, once upon a time. Since then, they have evolved their own personalities. I moved my porch stairs to the side, so I don’t have to haul groceries from the garage to the road and back the length of the driveway (via the porch) to the house. The McDougalls don’t have a garage, and when they have groceries, they park on the street.
Our house has aluminum siding painted yellow, with some sort of bionic paint that has faded a bit but not chipped a fleck in the 14 years we’ve been here. Theirs is white, wood siding (original?) that every few years Mr. McDougall seriously pledges to paint.
On his porch, a hanging geranium. In the fall, I will look out the north window and watch the frost turn the leaves black. Over the years, I have suggested he take his plant in come September—put it in the south window, save it for next year. Like my parents, from the Depression , this should appeal to his deep Yankee thrift. But he’s always too busy to make it actually happen. And then in the spring, out on the sidewalk, he’ll tell me about the outrageous cost of plants again.
Except he won’t. And I won’t. I won’t stand at my north window and watch the leaves turn black, because I will be planted on the other side of town. My tenant, when we are lucky enough to find one, will be here instead. And then we won’t discuss geranium prices in the spring. Do I write in the lease that I retain the rights to stand out front on a beautiful spring morning and talk to Mr. McDougall about the outrageous cost of plants?
Of course, the sidewalk is public domain. Sure, my tenant might think I’m a stalker, but I could just go stand out there anyway, and maybe linger a bit, hoping Mr. McDougall will come out, like a tourist in Hollywood waiting outside some mansion to see a star. But I won’t. You know I won’t. I will have new neighbors and a new window and a new view. Give me a month or two and I won’t remember the chipping paint, the cracks in his driveway, the peony he pronounces pee-OH-nee. I will forget that our houses are twins, or that he stands just below my office window on Saturday mornings humming as he chops wood. Or that he heads off, at nearly 80, on his bicycle at the end of a very long day as I collapse onto my couch. I will forget. I will forget. I will forget. And that is what I am grieving for most of all.
