In the hush of morning, our neighbor is lost. Gone are hanging baskets, a throaty laugh, smiles. Gone are watchful eyes, keeping our corner safe. Gone, too, is Sunday church, those days she was so beautiful in her best dress. Gone will be the name Olevia from our lips, except as memory instead of a call across the street. Gone are friendly waves, those elegant fingers, a matriarchal spirit. Gone are the moments we recognized each other as people, backgrounds and lives far different, but neighbors caught up in our daily lives, living peacefully, together, loving the changing seasons, children growing, lives passing, neighbors leaving a mark on our hearts.
The pier that inspired Swimming With Michelangelo, which, when I jumped off of it a couple of summers ago, kickstarted the poem is just down the road from where I live. I love this pier. It’s ever changing, and a couple of days ago, with the sky reflecting in the mirrored lake, it was quite beautiful, again.