hello, goodbye

I’m looking back at my front yard from the sidewalk, watching the cat do his best to cut a swath through the tall grass. I’m trying to decide which disaster area needs attention first.  Really, I’m looking for a good distraction from the pending election.  Every call, every email and every post is an expression of outrage about something one side of the country has done to the other.  I tell myself there are no sides.  We are one country.  But nobody is saying or tweeting that.

“Hey, Loch,” Tabby, my precocious eight-year-old neighbor calls out as she gets closer.  She pulls up a rainbow-colored mask. “Whatcha doing?”

“Just standing around wondering what I’m going to do next.  Have you ever wondered that?”

“Yeah.  I just asked Dan if he could help me with my homework.  He said I should ask Alice.”

“Did you ask your mom?  I mean, Alice?”

“She’s the one who told me to ask Dan.”

“I used to be pretty good at homework.  What questions do you have?”

“Oh.  I already did it yesterday.”  She laughs in way that tells me she’s not looking for me to laugh with her. She leans over and picks up Toby, who looks exhausted from his short foray into the jungle.

So.  Tabby and I are standing together like the masked neighbors we are, looking for a good distraction when I see a red car approaching from the far end of the block.  The car gets close and stops, and the mother of all distractions steps out.

“Kim?”

“Lochypoo!” she cries. 

“Okay, not in front of the kid,” I ask as she puts her arms around me and turns me into a hug. “Or the cat.”

“What.  I can’t call you Lochypoo in front of people?”

“I’ve told you before.”

Tabby grins at me and rolls her eyes.

“Kim this is Tabby.  Tabby, Kim. Toby, you remember Kim.”

My neighbor looks amused, but she raises her hand and waves.

“It is so good to see you,” I tell my friend. 

“I’m sure.”

“I spoke with your sister the other day and she said you were in the hospital.”

“Yeah.  Heart attack.”

“Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack.”

“See how funny she is?” I say to Tabby.  “First a stroke.  Now this.  That’s two times a miracle.  And now you’re out.”

Kim holds up a third finger for this latest miracle.  “Yes, sir.  I had to break out of that place.  Full of sick people.”

“And you’re driving again.”

“You’re so good at pointing out the obvious.  This is a time of change,” she says.  “A time to turn back the clocks and distance ourselves from the virus, a time to drive ourselves to the poles and set the country’s agenda for the next four years, a time to let go.”

“Hold on.  That last item doesn’t exactly go with the others.”  But Kim’s face is one of absolute patience.

“There is something very liberating about a heart attack.  It puts all your fears on the table,” she says and holds up a flat palm, “and just blows them away.”  I can smell something sweet and wistful in her breath.   

“That almost sounds worse than the heart attack.  If you took away all my fears, what would be left?”

“Perfect vision.”

I look to my eight-year-old neighbor to see if she is following any of this.

“People say what a horrible year 2020 is.”  Kim shakes her head.  “This is the year we are given a unique chance to see what we want and what we are made of.  All our fears are on the table.”

“Your apocalyptic homily is a day late.  The trick-or-treaters were on the sweet beat last night.”

“Ha ha,” she ha’s sarcastically.  “I’m trying to tell you good news.  What happens at the polls, whatever it is, will be good.”

“You know, there is a compelling argument to be made that our country is a democracy in name only.”

“Listen to me.  Regardless if your candidate wins, our political goals have to be long-term.  You can’t change society overnight.  It takes people a while to cool down, acclimate and accept what, in the beginning, they fought so hard against.”

“You drove all the way down here to tell me this?”

She shrugs.  “I worry about you and your anxiety.  It shows right through your mask.”

I turn to the kid and the cat.  “Nothing gets through the N95.”

“BUT,” Kim transitions hard.  “Your anxiety about the election and the health of the country is a symptom of fear.  That fear is on the table.”

“It would be nice to push myself away from that table.  You used to share that fear with me.  You know, we have always shared a similar political ideology, we’ve always liked the same books and authors, had similar experiences in teaching.  Really, Kim, you and I are so much alike.”

Kim laughs hard.  “Oh, Lochypoo!  No white man should ever tell a black woman that he and she are so much alike.”

“Okay.  Tell me how I’m wrong.  Aside from the obvious.”

“You are wrong,” she says and blows again over her palm, “because my table is cleared.”

“How did you do that.  You know, in case I want to be more like you again.”

“I’m sorry.  I can’t tell you that.  I can’t even tell my very intelligent son.  Both of you.  You have to figure it out.  I just hope it doesn’t take you a stroke and a heart attack.”

“I gotta tell you, though, you haven’t looked this good, this vibrant, in years.”

She laughs like I haven’t heard from her in years.

“There’s another reason I came here.  You never know what a person is thinking or going through.  For the same reason, you don’t know how much your simple text of confidence might mean to them.  Or your ending a phone call with a little love.”

“Please tell me I did that a few times.”

She peers right through my N95.  “I was on my way to a doctor’s appointment the other day when I had this sharp pain in my chest and I thought, better call Lochypoo.”

“Is that a normal reaction for you?”

“It was this time, because I wanted you to know what our friendship has meant to me.”

At once, I feel a pang of guilt.  “I’m sorry I screened your last two calls.”

“Two?  Try five.”

“Kim!”  I beg her to understand.  “Our calls are like a Baptist church service.  You can’t knock them out in a few minutes.  It takes time, and I’ve just been short on time, lately.  Do you forgive me?”

“Do you see me right in front of you?”

“I see her,” I say to Tabby.  “You see her, don’t you?”

“That’s why I’m doing this in person.  I don’t have time for all that any more.”

“All….what?”

“Misunderstandings, fears, cellphones with caller-ID, distance, time.”

“You know, I remember telling you that if you pulled through this, I would work you into one of my blog posts.”

“I remember.  What was that…a threat?”

“I was trying to give you incentive.”

“I’m kidding.  It’s sweet, but I don’t need an interpretation of my face and body in one of your silly pictures.  No insult, but I doubt your paintbrush can handle my serious curves.”

“Okay.  No silly picture.”

She steps forward and we hold each other for a long time.  “Okay,” she says and steps back abruptly.  “Another thing I didn’t come here to do is cry.  You remember what I said.”

“You’re leaving already? You just got here.”

“No more epic sermons. I love you,” she says.

“Love you, too.” 

“See?” she says and smiles as though she just answered one of life’s burning questions.

My cellphone rings.  Before I can pull it out of my pocket, Kim pulls away from the curb.  Her car stops at the corner. She is just starting her turn when I see who is calling.  Kim’s sister.

“Loch?” she says, and I can hear in the way she says my name that this is not going to be a Lochypoo call.

“Kim died last night at 1 am.”

The red trunk of Kim’s car is just falling under the incline of the corner property. 

“Died?”

“I’m sorry.”  Her sad words stutter as though she is trying out a new language.  “I’ll call later with the details.”

Everything changes, calling my attention to a certain tabletop.

“You look sad,” Tabby tells me.

“That person who was just here…”

She looks confused.  “Who?”

“The woman who was just talking with you and me.  That person who was larger than life.”

Tabby laughs at me.  “You’re funny.  But I get it.  I do that all the time.”

“You do what all the time.”

Now she looks at me as though I’m testing her.  “Talk to people who are not there.  Sometimes they say more to me than the people who are there.”

Kim was here.