Neighbors

The first words I could get out of my mouth had nothing to do with anything. Too many bad novels and worse news stories have taught me not to open my door for strangers. But shivering in the dark on my driveway landing, she looked frail and harmless when I peered out at her through the hall window. Her hat was pulled down over her forehead, her hands were buried deep inside her jacket pockets, and her shoulders were scrunched high next to her neck.

I looked into her eyes and exclaimed: “I didn’t realize it was past four o’clock!” She looked at me quizzically and must have guessed I was referring to the early December darkness. I didn’t recognize her at all until she introduced herself. She was my new neighbor from a few doors down. I had knocked on her door one day to welcome her, but she had told me that I couldn’t come in because her floors were freshly polished and her walls had recently been painted. At the time, I had felt a touch dejected but decided that people with busy urban lives don’t always have time for chitchat.

Years ago, when I was raising three young children and a puppy in this house, the common bonds of motherhood were sufficient to start a conversation with a parent pushing a stroller, trick-or-treating with a band of gypsies or preparing to carpool a soccer squad. My neighbor looked to be around my age but unlike me, she was serious. No smile played around on her lips. “Would you like to come in?’ I asked.

“I would like to come in, but I don’t have time today.” She replied as she stepped inside long enough to exchange phone numbers and agree that she would return for a cup of tea someday soon. That afternoon she was worried about the river of water running through my yard. An outside spigot burst after a number of frigid days had given way to an unusual spell of mild weather. I was grateful for her concern.