Cool, rainy and gray in this old neighborhood, full of history, charm, elegance and comfort. A few of the houses still bravely sport their Christmas decorations, wreaths, even lights, but most are gone. Dying poinsettias are tossed on the curb with empty Christmas present boxes.
I pass the house where Don B. lived before ending his life by driving his car into a highway overpass. He was taken by EMS to the emergency room of the hospital where his wife, a nurse, was working on the floor above. I came from my town where I lived then to this house to help Lois sort out his clothes and I remember the little landing with a window at the top of the stairs and the big closet around the corner
And later on, I attended Lois' wedding to the assistant minister of her church, a man who had dated a girlfriend for years until Lois came along and knocked him off his feet. Lois had bought the wedding dress long before they planned the wedding. The recessional was the Hallelujah chorus from the Messiah.
They bought a new house in a new neighborhood. The last I heard from them, was a mass mailing about burning books on Halloween.
I walk on past the happy dog walkers, the diligent ever running runners, the church goers closing their car doors, the robe wearers scooping up their plastic bagged newspapers. There are church bells ringing.
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