She’s No Longer Visible From My Kitchen Window
My neighbor and I used to wave to each other washing dishes. Now, only one of us remains.
The house next door to mine is enormous. Built in 2001 in a spacious modern style, with paint the color of soft evergreens, a double attached garage and three balconies, it towers over our cozy 1931 brick Tudor, which has no garage and zero balconies. A shared driveway separates our homes, but we’re still so close that I could lean out my bedroom window and fly a paper airplane right into their laundry room.
But it’s the kitchens that face each other most directly, with my kitchen sink looking right out at theirs. When I stand at my sink, if my neighbor is doing the same, we can wave to each other. If she held up a book, I could probably read it.
We moved in to our house the same month the enormous house was finished and sold to its first buyer, a coroner we barely ever saw. He sold to a jolly family who ended up getting relocated to Charlotte for work, and they sold to a new family, with international roots. She was from Tokyo, he from Glasgow, and they had two charming little girls, who despite their multicultural parents, only knew America, and only knew the big green house.
