Neighbor

She stands beside her house. A huge, white block of a building. Three floors. Five bedrooms. Four bathrooms. Who knows, no one goes inside. Except her, I guess.

There’s a wall of hedges protecting the property. Taller than you are. In the summer, when you walk by, you can hear sparrows bickering and laughing in the brambles. You can’t see them, though, through the leaves.

But in the winter, when the leaves drop shriveled to the ground, you can catch a glimpse through the frosted twigs. They say she got the house from her father after he died. No one else to give it to, I guess.

She stands there like always, waiting on the curb. Couldn’t tell you for what.

A light pink bathrobe hangs from her blotted, sagging skin. Pink curlers sit in her hair. Slippers conceal the yellowing nails that lie naked where pink polish crumbles. In the crux of her right arm drapes a tiny, white dog with a pink collar, legs dangling mid-air. It gazes down at the concrete sidewalk, then at a squirrel scurrying up an oak, which casts a large and dappled shadow over the pair. The dog’s rear leg scratches at her arm half-heartedly. The other hangs limp. Maybe she doesn’t notice. Maybe it’s the bathrobe.

We try not to look at her face. From a bedroom window, in a passing glance—we never like what we see. But we wave to her just the same as we pass. And she always returns the gesture. She follows us with those expressionless eyes. It’s all she can muster, I think. Somehow, we know that those eyes follow us—after we turn our heads away and continue onwards. Along the street, and up the hill, and out of sight. I think we know that even after we’re gone, her eyes linger. Settled on the spot we once were. But we will return.

We have no quarrels. She is one of us, in a way.