The end of Sherman court

The large front window in the ranch house at the end of Sherman court is dark.

The familiar glow of a warm lamp and the evening news has gone dim.

Family has been by to gather things, scurry through belongings, take away cars. She won’t need them anymore.

Less than ten slow, meaningful conversations in fourteen years was not enough.

And that’s on me.

When my grandmother laid in the nursing home, angry, confused, barely able to hear anyone speak, it was rarely my face that showed up for comfort. What could I do, anyways?

Besides not saying goodbye. Someone else would handle that. Someone older. Someone more emotionally equipped. Someone more comfortable being uncomfortable.

Ms. Jennie showed up to our house the day we moved in. She was carrying a tray of brownies. Home made. With brownie batter unknowingly still smeared on her face. With love.

“I love watching your kids play outside. I love watching them grow up.”

I didn’t know when her birthday was.

Fourteen years. Seems like something you should know about a widow. A neighbor.

That’s on me.

When the kids were small we started a tradition of bringing cookies to the four elderly neighbors on our five house street around Christmas time.

By the time they were eight and ten, that tradition died. We were busy.

That’s on me.

She had plenty of company. Family. Church friends. But her neighbors could usually only be bothered to give brief pleasantries.

We looked out for her, but from a distance.

Four houses down.

Who is my neighbor?

Her husband left an incredible tool collection behind in his garage. He was a carpenter or an accountant, maybe. Honestly, I didn’t record the story to memory.

That’s on me.

Her grandson would’ve been homeless if not for her. But he still died of some sort of drug overdose anyways. What does it feel like to offer shelter and still watch someone get swept away by the storm?

Her house must’ve been so lonely.

I suppose a weekly drop-in for conversation would’ve been asking too much of my precious time.

Why do we hold all the wonderful things we think about a person inside of us only to let it burst out once they’re gone?

The kids were too little to not be afraid of Gi Gi (or Maw, as I called her with the most souther drawl). She was frail and couldn’t hear them anymore. She gave my mom so much guilt in that last year. Just for getting older. It wasn’t fair. I should’ve helped carry more of the burden.

That’s on me.

Ms. Jennie, I hope knowing your neighbors were just a family trying their best was a comfort. I hope knowing we shared the same values and views on loving our neighbors was too.

I hope you forgive us for not loving them more in practice. In real life.

It gave us so much comfort knowing you were there. Sweet and kind. Glowing through the window on early summer nights.

Funny the things you take for granted.

Funny the right things you can’t make yourself do.

One day when I am alone and shrivelling in a hospital bed or an empty house that is filled with the smell of mothballs and faded memories, and days gone by with no visitors, no calls, I hope I give them grace. At least I’ll know why.

That’s on me.

Thank you for wanting my kids to come in and stay a while when they were little, dragging oversized pumpkin heads and puffy costumes at the end of each October. I’m sorry it wasn’t longer. I’m sorry it wasn’t more.

That’s on me.

Tell my grandmother I’m sorry, too. And I hope she knows that, but still, I think it would mean a lot coming from you.