Soapbox

I stopped by my elderly neighbor’s house today to water the plants and bring in the front porch flyers. She is in a bed 50 miles away, failing in both body and mind.

I run a quick cloth over the tables and the TV screen, removing dust she no longer cares about, because it feels wrong to let it build up. Then, slowly, for the first time in all the years I have known her, I sit down in her chair.
Children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren smile at me from the shelves. I look across the street to my own front door, remembering the days and weeks and months and years that she sat here, watching and waving to me as I walked the dog and went to work.
And it really hits me how alone she was.

“Call me if you need anything” I would say when I phoned to ask if she wanted anything from the grocery store. And she would always say she was fine, when what she really needed but would never ask for was for me to put down the rake or the dog leash or car keys and just walk across the street and knock, say “Hey, got a few minutes to chat?”
And I did that…. sometimes. But not often enough.
Still, she called me a good friend.

I didn’t really notice when she gradually became unable to get out on her own to see friends at church or go out to eat. Her daughter drove to town once a week to get her groceries and stay overnight. I would look for the car so I knew she had someone with her for that little while. I always paused and waved when I walked by with the dog, whether I saw her in her chair or not. On her birthday early in the Covid lockdown I got several neighbors together and we stood in her front yard and waved and sang “Happy Birthday”.
And I had stuff of my own I was doing, and I guess I told myself that it was enough.
But sitting there in her chair, listening to the incredible stillness of a house too-long empty, I know it was not enough.

Shortly before she went to the hospital we had a power outage. I stopped over twice to see how she was doing, offered to bring her some ice, and the second time she asked me to come in, and then asked if I wanted to play Scrabble.
Really? I thought about the preparations I was making for a hot night without power, and dusk was approaching… and then I thought about her. No TV, no radio, no one to talk to. Just the window, looking out on the rest of the world.
And I said “Sure” and we pulled the board over to the window to get the waning light and she beat me HARD because she is a good scrabble player, which I hadn’t known about her.
I called her daughter for her because her phone had no power, “Hey this is Tracy, you never told me that your mom is a Scrabble hustler, good thing I didn’t bet anything!” and gave her my phone so they could talk for a little while.
“I’m fine” she said. “I have the best neighbors!”
We talked about this and that as I got my hat handed to me until it grew too dark, and she turned on her flashlight and said she’d go to bed. I went upstairs and got sheets and pillows so she could sleep on the sofa by the screen door to catch the breeze and avoid that long flight of stairs in the dark.

And then she had a sudden back problem and her daughter came and took her to the hospital, and they wanted her to go to a rehab center instead of home. I was in my yard when they stopped by to get her some clothes and other belongings to take with her “for a short stay” “Maybe 30 days”. I helped with the bags and leaned in the car to hug her and say goodbye.
“Oh, I have such a good neighbor, such a good friend” she said.
But I really only was sometimes. When I thought of her instead of me. Which wasn’t often enough.

She never came back, and it’s clear that she never will.
I look back into the dining room and see the Scrabble box still sitting on the table, and am grateful that I stayed that evening, listened to her tell me those same stories of her childhood that she always tells. At least I did that.

I rock a bit in her chair. The house is SO quiet, they way they are while waiting on an ending, and a new beginning. The only sound is the relentless ticking of the old wall clock, counting down the days until someone reaches in and gently stops the hands.