My neighbour passed away yesterday. It was expected—she was old, had lived a full life, and passed with her daughter by her side. Yet, even when it’s expected, it still feels surreal.
We were close, as neighbours go. I’ve lived in this house for nearly 25 years, and she’s been my neighbour that entire time. She watched my kids grow up, shared countless little moments across the fence, and was the kind of neighbour you could depend on—present, steady, a fixture of the everyday.
This morning, I stepped outside to go to the garage to put the laundry in the dryer. When I turned back toward the house, I glanced at her window out of habit. Had I not known she passed yesterday, I could almost believe she was still alive, just inside, as she’s always been.
The day before, I was in the garage, and she was still in her house. Today, she’s not. It’s such a small detail in the grand scheme, but it feels monumental in its finality. How can a life that’s been part of mine for so long suddenly stop?
There’s a silence now, one I hadn’t noticed before. It lingers in the spaces she used to occupy—in her window, in my mind. And that’s the strangest part: she’s gone, but it still feels like she’s here, just out of reach.
Your description is one of quiet reflective grief. Since the dawn of time the strangeness of life passing has played within the minds of those who are left. There is the void of vacated soul that we sense but cannot comprehend.