642 Things to Write About: A Woman thinks she might be living next door to her grandson

She spent her spare moments, and retirement gave her many, gazing out the window waiting for him to come or go. Each brief glimpse revealed something she thought she recognized. Her daughters wavy black hair. Her husbands nose and chin. Her son-in-laws broad shoulders and towering height. Once, he'd passed her on the street, and her own dark green eyes looked back at her.

She knew it was wishful thinking. The chances of him being here, next to her, wer so slim; but it fuelled her. There was a chance that these features she recognized were more than just what she wanted to see. There was a chance that he was her grandson.

If she could just figure out what to say and how to say it, she could fix everything, and end her loneliness. Unfortunately, in the last three years, she had not figured out what to say or how to say it. She was not sure if he would know who she was. She could only guess what her daughter and son-in-law had told him about her. What if they had told him the horrible things she had said? What if they had filled him with fear? Or, worse, what if they had never mentioned her at all?

These were the questions th at had plagued her since that rainy day in June when the moving van pulled up to the house next door. It was a terrible day to move. The wind drove the sheets of rain at an angle, soaking everything and everyone. She had just retired, and the loneliness had settled, and promted her to adopt a dog, when she opened the door to let the dog into the front yard she'd heard this young man calling to someone in the van, and there was something in the tone of voice, in the inflection, in the phrase used that made her think of her daughter. Whatever it was he said, it was long lost to her, was said in the same way that Natlie would have said it.

She could not see his face through the rain, and his head was covered in a hood, but from that moment on she obsessed. She gathered bits and pieces of information and pinned her hopes of a happy reunion on them. Three years of timid detective work left her certain of a few things. His name was Daniel (and hadn't Natalie loved the name Daniel as a child?). His parents had died when he was young (her grandson had been orphaned when he was eight). He had moved to the neighbourhood from the East, and had spent several years abroad (she thought Natalie's sister-in-law had been a photographer or writer or some sort of traveller). Every bit of overheard conversation was something to obsess about. Anything could be a clue.

Natalie had been such a boisterous child. Always singing and dancing and shouting. She wanted adventure; she didn't realize that it was safer at home. Always safer at home. She had accused her mother of being "old fasioned," but what was old fashioned about needing to know her daughter was safe? When Natalie turned 18, she left for college. She went as far away as she could, sent an occasional letter, made the even more occasional phone call, and in four years, when she returned, she brought Paul with her.

There was no reasoning with her! She was being flighty and irresponsible! She had to be reined in! To keep her safe! These things could lead to heartbreak, they could lead to terrible pain. Natalie didn't understand! Then, Natalie and paul vanished. One night, they left. No note. No explanation. Just gone.

Two years later, a note came in the mail. No return address, just a Boston postmark on the envelope. The scrap of paper inside read: We had a son. He has your eyes.

Eight years after that she saw Natalie and Paul in the news. They were dead. Their orphaned eight year old son was fine, and would be cared for by an aunt. A drunk driver was responsible. There was no keeping Natalie safe now.

No one sent her a letter or a note to let her know her daughter was dead. Perhaps no one knew that Natalie had a mother, or perhaps everyone knew that Natalie wanted nothing to do with her mother. Years passed, she was alone. Working at the library, looking after her flowers, eating toast and soup. The time came when the library asked her to retire, and so she did. Retirement isolated her, making her loneliness her only company. Joints stiffened with age, and the garden became too much to keep up: just the bed outside the front window with some low maintenance blooms to make her go outside. She hired a boy to mow the grass or shovel the snow. The days, and seasons, and years blended together, and she wished she'd been able to keep Natalie safe.

Then, he moved in, and everything changed. A voice in her head woke up, and chanteed "It has to be him! It must be him! It can't not be him!" She imagined scenario afte scenario in which she found a gentle, clever way to tell him the truth; to reveal that she was not alone, that she had him! Yet, three years had passed, and other than the occasional neighbourly wave as they passed on the street, she had made no progress.

If only she had found a way to keep Natalie safe, with her! Then she might know her grandsons name. She would have been a part of his life, instead of wondering if he was this young man. She could have spent her retirement years chatting freely with him, sharing in his day, visiting his wife, and sneaking cookies to the children after school.

It was a sunny afternoon when pain suddenly crushed her chest, and she collapsed while fumbling in the flower bed. She heard the frantic voices of the children next door calling to their father. He ran to her side, leaned over her and told her that help was coming. She looked up into his eyes-her eyes-and prayed for a glimpse of recognition as the pain went away and his face blurred into darkness.

The paramedics came, and took her away. No, no one knew if she had any family. No, they had never seen any visitors, just a dog. Yes, they could look after the dog until someone claimed her.

A few weeks later the public trustee assigned to the case cleared out the house. The dog was left with the family next door, they didn't mind, she was well trained, and the kids had become attached. A new family moved into the house, they had children close in age to the children next door. After school the two yards were filled with shouts, screams, and laughter as the boys teased the girls, and the girls shared their secrets with eachother.

A box was found in a space under the stairs, there was some rubbish, old keepsakes, and among them a framed newspaper photograph of a young boy, with a piece of paper, worn from much  handling, on which all that could be read was "He has your eyes." They showed what they found to Daniel and his family, wondering if they had known anything about the previous occupant and her past. They passed around the photo and the note; spending the evening speculating about the boy and the mysterious past of the lonely old woman. In the morning, the phot and the note went out with the trash, and were never thought of again.

642 Things to Write About--intro

I've been wanting to write, but never know what to write about, and then I found this book called "642 Things to Write About" and it looked interesting, but I didn't buy it. Until yesterday, I bought it, and now I shall write, and it might all be terrible, but it will be written, and maybe I'll share some of it. This is just to explain what you will see in some of the posts. When you have no idea what I am talking about or why: it is because 642 Things to Write About told me to. So there.