On living in a somewhat geriatric neighbourhood

When Miss Penny died (about two years ago now), I wrote a poem—an abecedarian. It's doubtless that it will ever be published anywhere but here, but I thought it should be published somewhere...so here's good!

So far it's untitled:

An awkward sight in the afterglow of day, she stood,
bathrobe open, slippers on, spreading birdseed on the
cement for wild city creatures: bunnies, chipmunks,
deer. She doted on them and they came to trust her,
expecting an evening feed. Thus engaged when we
first saw her, she gave a friendly wave, guffawed:
“Guess I’m Snow White, all grown up!” Ever after
her house became known as “Snow White’s House”
in the juvenile collective imagination. In general, her
job—neighbourhood invigilator—just meant watching
kids play, gathering gossip, keeping an eye out for
languishing souls. “Hullo, there!” she’d holler, loudly.
Make no mistake—if you were melancholy she meant
nobody but you. “Now, why don’t you make your way up
onto my porch?” She’d offer stories meant only for your
pretty little ears, help you practice observing in order to
quiet your mind. Quite the lady, Penny was. I don’t
recall registering her absence until I saw the sign: “Estate
Sale.” A childless spinster school teacher, retired and
tired of everything but sitting in her rocker, watching the
universe unfold between the balustrade posts, it was not
very obvious when she vanished. Not too long ago we
waved to her while out on a walk. Then warmth gave way to
extreme cold (a poor excuse), we stayed away, and she said
yes to the past tense, to turning into yesterday, leaving the
zoo on her front lawn wondering where she got off to.

*****

A few Sundays ago, a clay creature Zoë and her friend had made broke. We'd already had dinner and the sun was rapidly sinking, but Zoë wanted to run up to her friend's house to hold a funeral service for their little clay creature. I told her to run along (remember how whenever I'm in charge of bedtime, we're always late getting things done? Yeah...it's a real problem for me).

She came back much sooner than expected. While they had buried their broken creation and held a brief service for it, their mourning was cut short by the arrival of an ambulance. They stood in shock as they watched Miss Anne be wheeled out of her house on a gurney.

"And I don't know if she's a live or dead!" Zoë panted, trying to recover from her sprint home in darkness punctuated by flashing red lights. 

We've been debating her wellbeing since. Her house seemed much too quiet. But her garbage can was out. Her house seemed much too dark. But her landscapers came to mow her lawn—still brown since winter. Landscapers don't get cancelled simply because someone dies—someone has to cancel the landscapers otherwise they don't know. 

Dying is a lot of work...for the living...

One day her driveway was full of cars and lights were on in the house. 

"Miss Anne is back!" a child guessed.

I told the kids quite honestly that I didn't think Miss Anne was going to come home, that I thought she'd probably gone to heaven and that her children were cleaning out her house to get it ready to sell. 

Her garbage can was on the curb, full to the brim, bright and early Monday morning.

"Her garbage can is out again!"

"And again I'm pretty sure she didn't wheel such a full can to the curb herself! I'm afraid her children put the can out, guys. I really don't think Miss Anne is coming back."

On Tuesday Zoë texted me while I was on campus to tell me what she'd accomplished for the day. And then she tacked on a little post script: "Oh, and Miss Anne died."

So it was as I thought. 

"Good for her!" Rachel said when I told her what Zoë had texted. "I mean...it's what she wanted."

*****

A few weeks ago we'd gone for a walk on a Monday afternoon. 

Miss Anne was outside in her nightgown, hobbling toward her garbage can. 

"Oh, let us get that for you, Miss Anne!" I said. 

And then I made Rachel put the can away while I held the stroller on the hill (because Phoebe, who I admit is getting rather old to be wheeled around, would fuss if it happened the other way around). We've chatted with Miss Anne (and wheeled her garbage can for her) on many a garbage day. We have a system.

"Let's see," Miss Anne eyed the children up and down and rubbed her hands together like she was a contestant on a quiz show. "Miriam. Benjamin. Zoë." She pointed to each child in turn. "Alexander. Phoebe. And Rachel's with the garbage can."

"Well done!" I said. 

"Still got it!" she cheered. "My mind is as sharp as ever. It's this body. I had my stroke last year, you know. And now do you know what they've done? They've diagnosed me with cancer. Did you hear about that? Pancreatic."

"Oh, I had not heard about your cancer diagnosis! I'm so sorry!"

"Oh, it's alright. They said I have maybe months to live, asked me if I wanted to treat it. I said no. No, these bones are tired. I'm afraid I'm not long for the world."

I don't remember how we finished off our conversation. How do you move on from news like that? Did we just say, "Well...we'd better be off"? Did she say, "Well...I'd better get back inside"?

*****

Those words—I'm not long for the world—feel like the last words she spoke to me. 

But I think the words she spoke to me most often were, "I see you, Mom! You're doing a good job!"—as if she knew that what I needed in my was an octogenarian cheer leader (Miss Anne was 89) pumping me up on my afternoon walk.

And I did need that.