This is the house directly across the street from our front door. It's a rental. The current family has lived there three years or so. We have done no socializing with them, just the brief hand wave and "hello" as we go to our car. We've seen what appears to be a mother, a red-headed daughter, a son and a well-behaved white dog with black spots. Smoking must be prohibited in the house because all three come out and smoke on the porch no matter how cold, wet, or dark. The mother always has a book. The daughter and son both have their own cars and work odd hours. Well, we actually don't know they are working, they just come home at odd hours, often in the wee hours of the morning. We have made many assumptions. We hear their car doors close, we see them on the porch at 1 a.m., 2 a.m., 3 a.m. The changing light from a TV is on throughout the night as well. They are quiet, whispering softly as they sit on the porch in the dark, showing polite respect for their neighbors.
Last night as I put on my pajamas and padded by the bedroom window toward my side of the bed, I looked out as I always do and noticed the house completely dark. . .no cars. Odd, was my first thought. . .or is it? We have recently noticed the thinning mother as she sits on a small stool on the tiny front porch wearing a cannula. . .as she smokes. . .in the winter cold. Her hair thinned and then was totally gone. Most recently she has begun wearing a white turban, long white pants, and no book now. We have noticed people coming to the house. . .Hospice, we wondered? So many assumptions.
I crawled into bed, settled in, Mike turned out the light and I looked at the ceiling of our bedroom, noticing the lack of shadows from the light of the porch of the house across the street. A sadness settled over me. I don't even know these people. But I do know the adult children were very attentive to the mother. They were respectful neighbors. What is the story there? I don't have answers. . .all I have are assumptions. Sad assumptions.
