Getting out of my car one evening in late January, I met my neighbor Theresa, who had seen me drive in. " Mrs Taylor is in the hospital again, " she said. " I thought you'd like to know. " I had last seen Mrs Taylor a day or two before Christmas when I took her a little loaf of pumpkin bread, and she came from the backroom in her wheelchair to talk with me. Mrs Taylor and I had been neighbors for 17 years. I remember the dog she and her husband used to have. They called him Beau. He greeted everyone who walked by, and Mr Taylor loved him.
Most of my conversations with Mrs Taylor had been incidental— visits by the mailbox, running into one another at the gas station where she helped me pu t air in my tire, quiet talks at the funeral home where we went to honor the memory of a mutual friend.
When my husband and I moved here with our four noisy, laughing kids, it must have seemed as if the peaceful quiet of the neighborhood had been forever broken. But we showed our enthusiasm to the neighbors sincerely although we had little in common with the mostly elderly folks on our street. Over the years they helped us love our children, picking them up when a bicycle overturned and sending the kids cards for their graduation. We have enjoyed the comfort of living beside people who help us if our tree falls on the fence and feed the cat when we're away.
Mrs Taylor did not survive her latest set-back. Once again I walked into the funeral home to say good-bye to a neighbor. I remembered the barking dog, the chats by the mailbox, the friendly wave across the fence. I remembered, and I was sad, but I had no regrets. Now there is a new family moving into the Taylor place. I see children's toys in the yard. It's time to take a walk.
