I debated about what to write from yesterday. I was tempted to talk about Taylor Swift. Amelia choreographed a dance to "22," which she performed for me and Clara, and afterwards we watched a bunch of Swift's music videos. Even though I'm not really a music person, I understand Swift's popularity. There's an unabashed joy in them that's infectious--as evidenced by the fact that "twenty-two-ooh-ooh" has been running through my head all day.
Still, these are my essays, and they can be about whatever I want, so I've instead chosen to write about neighbors. We're getting our kitchen table refinished, and yesterday the craftsman, Rick, called to arrange to pick up the table that night. Jeremy's out of town for work, and I was worried about Rick and my ability to lift the heavy table out the door. When Rick arrived, it was clear that, though I'm strong, the table was going to be too heavy. I texted two of our neighbors to see if they could assist, and John was over less than a minute later, cheerfully helping Rick load the table into the truck.
We have two families of neighbors that have been indispensable to us: through raising children, navigating Covid, and fighting the alienation of middle age. I have countless "lifting a table into a truck" stories to tell, though I won't recall them all now. Still, I'm incredibly grateful for these neighbors' physical help and emotional support through the past decade.
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