The Conversations I Wish I Could Have With My Neighbor

Life isn’t about headlines or clicks, it’s about people and connections.

I moved into my neighborhood ten years ago with a husband, a dog, and two cords of firewood. We unpacked our bags and settled into a world that is aggressively middle class. It’s the type of neighborhood where fall is marked by the sounds of backpack leaf blowers, summer is the soft hushing sound of the sprinkler systems turning on and springtime brings a parade of landscaping trucks to ‘freshen up’ the mulch.

There are about thirty houses in my neighborhood, tied together with streets that are all named after different types of trees. Over the years, I’ve walked the loop from Laurel Hill to Hemlock to Oak Ridge hundreds of times.

On one edge of our neighborhood is a private beach that we all share. There are a handful of canoes and kayaks, two picnic tables, and about fifty feet of sandy beach where the neighborhood kids squabble over sand toys and gummy snacks. It’s the modern version of the town commons. We don’t bring our livestock there to graze, but it’s where we go to catch up on the local gossip.

When we first moved here, we met our neighbor Derek at the beach. He had a big smile, a dark tan and he loved to fish. When our daughter was born, he bought a pink pool noodle and stashed it under his canoe for her so she would always have something to float on. He was the type of guy that always had something positive to say. Spreading his arms wide, he’d gesture towards the puffy clouds and water and say, “Can’t beat it…nope, can’t beat it.”

Derek hated winter. In the summer, we’d see him every other day, but in the wintertime, we’d go months without a glimpse of him. Once we saw him shoveling snow off his car and he was a shell of the person we saw at the beach in the summer.

“I fucking hate winter,” he said, kicking snow off his boots and pulling his fur-lined hat farther down over his head.

We didn’t see him again until the snowbanks were gone and we were all back at the beach together. While I spread sunscreen across my kids’ faces, he slathered himself with baby oil, making sure to point out the sheen that spread from his body when he went swimming.

Two weeks ago, Derek was at the beach and he told me about the owls that he had seen flying in the trees behind his house. He was going to show me pictures on his phone, but he had left it at home.

“Next time,” I said.

He then went on to tell me how amazing it was that owls could fly so well since they were completely blind.

As a science teacher and a longtime birdwatcher, I know that owls are 100% not blind. But it was hot, my kids were complaining and I just didn’t have the energy to explain it.

“Huh,” I said, packing up our things to go home.

My kids and I visited my parents over the Fourth of July. There weren’t any parades or fireworks, but it was nice to get away for a few days anyway.

When we returned home, another neighbor rushed to tell us that Derek was dead. He had died by suicide in his house over the weekend.

When my son, who is 3, heard the news, he looked up at the sky and whispered, “Hey Derek, I hope you catch some big fish up there!”

I’ve always thought of Derek as a neighbor, but now that he’s gone, I realize he was more than that. Since we don’t have family in the area, he has been the one to see our kids learn to swim, figure out how to catch frogs and work up the courage to jump off the dock into water over their heads.

I’d never ask Derek for financial or career advice, but he’s given me lots of tips on how to grill a steak, how to keep beer cold on a hot day, and where to find the secret six-pound bass that hides under the ledges of the pond. And I’ve told him stories about my job, and my kids that I’m sure none of my friends have heard.

It’s always sad when someone you know dies. But I don’t feel the gut-wrenching grief that I have felt at the death of a close friend or family member. I’m more pissed that he’s not around anymore. It feels like we have unfinished business that I’ll never get to wrap up.

For example, I never wrote down the name of the marinade he always used for his steak tips. He’d kiss his fingertips to show how delicious they were when he used it. I always meant to buy some, but I could never remember what it was called when I was in the grocery store.

Also, this spring, he found that someone drilled a small hole in his canoe. When I asked him who it was, he got real quiet and said, “I’ll tell you later…too many people around right now.” He raised his eyebrows to show that it was a juicy story.

We also spent a lot of time talking about the pandemic and how things are going to go down over the next few months. I feel pissed at him that we won’t get to rehash the news together and shake our heads in disbelief at the crazy world we live in.

Our beach is not the same without him. As Covid-19 kept all of us at home, away from friends and family, at least we still saw Derek.

It’s been hot this week, so we’ve spent a lot of time down by the water. I keep thinking I see Derek out of the corner of my eye. When I do, I think about what I would say to him.

Neither one of us are touchy-feely, so it wouldn’t be anything too mushy. But I’d tell him how much we liked having him watch over our beach. I’d let him know how much it meant to have him pay attention to our kids and notice their missing teeth, growth spurts, and new water tricks. I’d ask him how he was doing and then really listen to his answer.

And finally, I’d tell him the truth: Owls aren’t blind. They see just fine.

Suicide sucks. If you are worried about yourself or someone else, get help.

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline

We can all help prevent suicide. The Lifeline provides 24/7, free and confidential support for people in distress, prevention, and crisis resources for you or your loved ones, and best practices for professionals.

1–800–273–8255