How a Man who Spoke less than a few Dozen Sentences to me in 26 Years kept me Anchored
A wave, a hi, and some hard of hearing
During the pandemic, my next door neighbor of 26 years passed away from cancer on May 18, 2021. I never talked to Kaz for more than a minute each time we saw each other. But I bawled like a baby when his family told me he died peacefully during the night. I couldn’t figure out why- I didn’t even cry like that when my grandmother died.
I was making breakfast for my 9 month old when we first moved here and noticed Kaz walking to his car which was parked between our homes. Kaz left his house for work every morning at 6 am for 25 years. He only stopped working last year when he had surgery.
When I started to get hungry or hear my stomach growl, Kaz would return at exactly 5:30 pm, sometimes with a cigarette in his hand. I knew it was time to start thinking about dinner. If I was decently dressed, I’d look out the window and he’d wave hi. In the early years, I would say to my children in a melodious cooing manner, “Kaz is homie. Mommy will have din-din soonie.”
If I ever saw Kaz on the sidewalk, our conversation was never more than a simple, “How are you?”. He was a man of few words. Mostly, he’d wave or nod when he saw me. I know what I would expect from him: politeness yet never do I need to give more than a simple hello. Nothing was expected from me. I needed that in my life-as a woman, as a mother, a wife, and as a daughter.
Kaz liked to sit in the backyard to smoke his cigarettes. He waved at me whenever I went out to the yard. If I asked him how he was, Kaz smiled and said, “Good” but he mostly waved. In a most comforting sort of way, I could again count on him for never saying too many words. I sat in my chair in the yard reading my book-divided by a low brown fence-he sat in his, smoking his cigarettes and we shared a stillness that was almost therapeutic.
On the weekends in the last few years , Kaz would often play his LP rock and roll and big band music from the 50’s and 60’s on his phonograph player. I never heard the music until Kaz was getting hard of hearing. His music would change my mood from melancholy to an upbeat one during shelter in place. I texted his lovely wife, “Tell Kaz I like his music.” From that text on, Kaz would blast his music on the weekends around noon so I can enjoy it. We sat in parallel silence, in our perspective yards savoring the music and the muteness.
In our culture where we value talking and extrovertism. I found his silence and presence soothing.
From the year we moved here in 1995, life was full of changes: San Francisco fog to smoky days, toting children from elementary school to moving them into college dorms, my healthy mother watching our children to taking care of her with Alzheimer’s to her burial, hosting children’s birthday parties to celebrating 50 year old birthdays, and transition of careers.
VHS to Netflix, dial up to fast speed internet, landline to smartphones, face to face to social media conversations, mass shooting, racial protests, political unrest, global pandemic. Kaz was still coming home and leaving the same time everyday.
Life is unpredictable, mercurial, and frequently changing. But Kaz was my constant: stable and reliable. I could count on him to be there. Unbeknownst to me , Kaz kept me centered, balanced, and grounded. It was not until his death did I realize how important he was to me.
When Kaz was in hospice care at the end, his wife would get him McDonald’s ice cream sundaes on warm days since he didn’t have an appetite. The day after Kaz passed away, I celebrated his life by having a sundae from McDonald’s in my yard. I sent a prayer to thank him for for keeping me grounded all these years.
