The New Neighbors

The Secret Smokers are outside again, huddled on their porch like normal. They moved in two years ago, these new neighbors, with their toddler, a sweet little girl. They showed no signs of being smokers then, Mrs. New Neighbor was actually quite pregnant at the time. Not long after they were settled, a balloon appeared in their yard announcing the arrival of a baby boy. That balloon stayed there for months, shriveling and deflating until, one day, it was gone. Soon after I noticed the New Neighbors huddled on their front porch smoking cigarettes, hiding from their kids. They became the Secret Smokers. Eventually Creepy Uncle joined them. About a year ago he had moved in with the family that had long lived in the big green Victorian next door. He could often be found on the front porch smoking his vape pen, but when Secret Smokers started secret smoking, it didn’t take long for Creepy Uncle to ensconce himself in their routine, ditching the vape for the real thing. And so Secret Smokers and Creepy Uncle became part of the normal pattern of the neighborhood.

I wave to Secret Smokers as I cruise down my driveway on my bike. I love riding to work; it gives my mind time to sleepily drift over the bayside landscape while I come to terms with being awake. The only problem is the wind on my ride home, and how difficult it makes it to talk on the phone.

Ever since I started my post-college career, I have been calling my Mom on my commute home. At first it was out of sheer boredom (though don’t tell her that), the 45 minute drive from my first job was monotonous and talking to Mom gave me something to do. Plus she was always excited to speak with me. These drive time chats became something I really looked forward to. But then I got the job closer to home and I started riding my bike. I soon learned that the wind created a static that was impossible to talk over. It was ever present, butting into the conversation intermittently, without courtesy, cutting our discussions short. I really missed the long talks we used to have, but not the accompanying long commute.

So here I was, another evening astride my Schwinn, beating into the wind down the shoreline path. I called my Mom as usual, but my Dad answered. “I have bad news, your mom has had a diagnosis… she has cancer”. That was all he said, that was all he knew. Mom was resting and couldn’t come to the phone, but we would speak tomorrow, after the appointment with the oncologist, when there was more information.

I rode the rest of the way home in shock.

My mom would die.

There would be no more phone calls.

The world would change.

I turned the corner to my street, Secret Smokers were outside again, huddled on their porch like normal, but for me, everything was different.