Neighbors

They were the kind,
you know them,
who just kept to themselves,
never bothered anybody,
nor asked for favors.

They had been there
as long as anyone
could remember.
Just the two of them.

Their little house,
mortgage probably paid
a decade ago, or more,
had its lawn tended to,
and sometimes the bushes, too,
or a tall palm shedding its branches,
by a yard man,
once every week.

Their mailbox, neat and tidy
like their house,
was white,
adorned with a radiant
red cardinal,
symbolizing vibrancy
and goodwill,
and it bore their street number,
but not their name.

Once, I asked my neighbor
Kelly if she knew them,
knew their name. She said
No, but they seem so nice....
just good old folks. I
agreed and nodded.

Mornings, first thing,
the woman would step out
to the driveway, chenille robe
wrapped tightly around her
slight figure, and stoop slowly
to pick up the newspaper.
Mondays and Thursdays,
she dragged their trash can
out to the curb, then ambled back
slowly, fatigued from her labor.


Afternoons, at 2:30,
the man rode his power scooter
down the sidewalk to the mailbox
then back again. He would sit for
a moment, sorting his mail,
soaking in the afternoon sun.

Once a week, without fail,
they would appear
dressed in their Sunday best
and she would struggle to help
her husband arrange himself
in their Buick.

Never bothered anybody,
nor asked for favors.

One day in late summer,
he failed to check the mail.
Then the next day.
And the next.

On that third day,
an obituary. The name
I didn't know, the address
was theirs. "Survived by his
wife of sixty-one years,"
it read.  "Request donations
to Children's Hospital
in lieu of flowers."
No other survivors
were listed.

A tear found its way down
my cheek. I regretted
never reaching out
to say hello to Ed,
whose name I finally knew.
I regretted
the simple kindness I never showed,
as I realized that kindness
is never a favor.



© Candice W. Coghill, November, 2011