Nothing Gold Can Stay; In the neighborhood, as in all of nature, the only constant is change
/The Boston Globe
I have known for months that she is moving. Late October, early November, that's what she told me all spring and all summer long. She's been fine with it. And I've been fine.
Still, when November dawned and there was a moving truck in her driveway across the street and movers carrying out boxes of her things, my heart felt like a just-skinned knee. It hurt suddenly and unexpectedly and so disproportionately.
Katherine is moving to her daughter's house, which is a mere 3.6 miles away. I could walk there if I had to. Katherine's moving makes perfect sense. She lives alone. Mary Anne lives alone. Mary Anne's house is more than big enough. Plus they love each other. And they get along. And they see each other almost every day, anyway.
This is a wise decision.
But still my heart aches, because it aches for me.
I have been looking out my office window at Katherine's house for decades. And now I look, and I know she isn't there. And I think, it's another thing to preface with a "used to." Katherine "used to" live there. Al "used to" live there. They "used to" be our neighbors.
In the beginning, it was Al I watched. He was the one who cut the grass and trimmed the trees and swept his driveway and washed his car every chance he could, whose movements in his yard (he was always up on his roof, or walking his dog, or pushing his wheelbarrow somewhere) would catch my eye and make me look up from the computer, straight at him, and smile.
Katherine was inside in those days, or 3.6 miles away at her daughter's, taking care of her granddaughter, Alexandra. Katherine was always quieter than Al. She sewed, knitted, crocheted, cooked, read, baked, babysat, hung her clothes outside to dry, her garden drawing her outdoors, too, to plant and water and weed. But not to socialize. Al was the gregarious one, chatting up the neighbors, walking his dog, talking with everyone he met along the way.
Al, always in motion, left us in slow motion. He stopped doing things, little by little, until he ground to a stop and just sat down and watched the world go by. And this was OK. He was still there across the street, sitting on a lawn chair in the shade of his garage. He was still at my kitchen table with Katherine for family dinners.
Katherine's come alone since Al died. Alone and not nearly as often, because her granddaughter, the baby she took care of, is getting married next year and there's lots to do on Sundays. Plus, I don't have family dinner every week anymore.
And yet, when I do, someone walks across the street to get Katherine — and the angel cake she always makes with chocolate frosting. And my grandkids race to the door to greet her. "Hi, Katherine!" "Sit next to me, Katherine." And someone else pours her wine, and then we all sit around the kitchen table and talk. And though Katherine is not our blood matriarch, she is something very close.
When my grandchildren were babies, she made them crib sets, matching quilts and sheets and pillow cases and bumper pads. She knitted most of the blankets in my house. She has loaned/given me eggs, canola oil, pots, pans, thread, pinking shears, hedge clippers and, Al's wheelbarrow. She has taught me most everything I know about gardening, but even more about patience and perspective and life.
Her moving is just geography, just 3.6 miles, just a necessary change.
She is happy, and I am happy for her. I know that skinned knees heal. I'm hoping that in time, my skinned heart will heal, too.
