I think my neighbor has died. I’m not exactly sure and not sure how to ask. I don’t think it’s proper to knock on the door and say “excuse me, I’m Tia from next door and I was wondering if your husband passed away on Sunday”. Something tells me she won’t give me a cookie for that.
I have an iffy relationship with these people. I’ve only lived here since November and Winter kept us from getting to know each other. Her bitchiness kept us from knowing each other this Spring. But thanks to my granddaughter we have started to speak. And now we have evolved from casual waving, when it’s unavoidable, to me helping carry their groceries in when I see them struggling. Of course, some might say I do that for the cookie she gives me every time I help. Some might be right, those are some good cookies.
Many of my friends know I woke up on Mother’s Day to the sound of an ambulance backing into their driveway. Since then no ones really been around but for the past day and a half a few people have been around. The cookie lady, her children, her brother-in-law, but not Frank. I think Frank passed away and I’d be so happy to be wrong. He may be grumpity and he may be loud but it isn’t the same not seeing him out there riding his John Deer back and forth across his way too small for a John Deer mower sized lawn. Next Winter’s first snow storm wouldn’t have him out with his way too large for his small driveway, snow thrower. He won’t run outside every time I head into my yard with a garden tool. He won’t pretend he was already out there anyway. I won’t go chasing his shirts when the high winds send them flying from their laundry line and out into the yard and down the street. I got two cookies for that act of bravery.
Now if my life were like the Gilmore Girls I’d run over and pop in with a box of muffins, she’d exchange witty banter or sad stories with me, we’d hug and quirkiness would follow for the next forty five minutes. We’d share a box of tissues and we’d look through her photo albums and I’d head back home both saddened and uplifted while my viewing audience wrote tributes on my message boards.
My life isn’t like the Gilmore Girls. Some times I almost wish it was. Not many day but some.
If my life were more like the Gilmore Girls my broken heart would mend in less than a week instead of still hurting eight months later, I’d outlast every speed bump I hit, and somehow everything would always turn out okay. If my life were more like the Gilmore Girls I’d wear what I want, follow every dream, mend the ties with my parents, and exchange only cute and funny quips with my kids. Everyone I know would be happy and healthy and somehow extremely good looking, and there would be nothing an hour of time and the occasional laugh track couldn’t fix.
The Gilmore Girls wear the right thing, do the right thing, and say the right thing. They’d know the right way to find out if their neighbor has died. They’d know the right thing to do if he had, and how to be a good neighbor to people they really don’t know.
But my life isn’t like the Gilmore Girls and won’t be anytime soon. And while I am okay with it, I still think my neighbor has died and I still don’t know how to go ask.