We’d round the last corner to home and she’d be sitting or standing on her deck. A half-floor off the ground, on the second floor of her building. She’d smile at Claire, and wave, and say “HI SWEETY.” Claire would smile, wave back, and sometimes say “hi” though much too quietly to be heard at that distance. 

Rain or shine, anytime it wasn’t too cold to have her sliding door open, she’d be holding court. Walking, runbiking, riding in my backpack, snuggling in the Tula, or cruising in the Chariot for years this was part of our routine. When we’d see her out for the first time in the spring it would always make me try to think back to the last time we interacted, in the fall. 

I’m so sad to say, I don’t remember when last I saw the elderly lady on her deck at 118. When I walked by the other day I happened to look up and I knew she was gone. The drapes are different. The furnishings visible from the road are all wrong. The last time we saw her was riding the cargo bike home, I remember us waving as we rolled by. The canopy wasn’t on. Was it this summer? Was it last summer? 

We never saw her in another context. I didn’t know her name, or even if she ever left her unit. If I’d walk by on my own we would still wave to each other. In those instances she always looked, even from a distance, like she was so tired. I think she lived there forever. Certainly I remember her sitting out before Claire came along. 

I say to Claire, “do you remember the lady who used to sit or stand on that deck and wave to you and say ‘HI SWEETY’ every time we went by?” She looks at me thoughtfully, she looks at the building thoughtfully. Her face says “no” but she can tell it matters to me and she says “I think so.”