I am scanning the obituaries in the local paper when I see the name of a neighbor—someone who lived not far from me. I didn’t know she was ill and I look up from the paper, feeling strangely empty and sad.
We weren’t friends, really, but I knew her name and a little about her. We crossed paths occasionally at the grocery store or library.
But while I gaze at her picture and read her obituary, I recall that I didn’t like her. Which meant I would acknowledge her when we met but didn’t stop to talk. Didn’t make an effort.
And when I try to remember why I didn’t like her, I cannot think of a single reason. Whatever triggered my irritation was so insignificant, it has vanished. While the irritation remained. Now
my sadness about her death expands to include my own smallness, my petty grievances. I am ashamed to admit how these unexamined opinions linger—and limit my life.
Sometimes it’s too late to make amends. She was my neighbor and I never thought much about her until now. I can remember her jogging slowly down the street, her face flushed. A pretty woman.
