It was unexpected. Will’s mom died the winter he turned twenty-two. His father had moved to Germany three years before, when the family parted ways and happily slipped out of contact. We were living in Boston and the cold seemed heavier, pervasive, even with a second seal over the drafty windows; even with sleeping in a second pair of socks. Over the last few months, we had developed amicable friendships with our neighbors, a genial pair of new parents in their early 30s, their toddler son, and a middle-aged widower down the hall. A few months earlier, we went to the son’s birthday party, and two months ago even shared a potluck Thanksgiving dinner; the long family table spread with mixing bowl mashed potatoes, Betty Crocker brownies, the Cooper’s toddler reaching for the Dom Pérignon.
The stairs creaked with weighted steps. I didn’t know how Will was dragging himself to work every day, but you could feel the thick, inklike energy flow back upstairs before he reached the front door. I don’t know if the news had even reached the neighbors, but the sorrow was palpable enough. Often, we opened the front door to grocery store bouquets of pink carnations, homemade double chocolate chunk cookies, a note with a phone number previously offered, reassuring to let us know if we needed anything.
One Thursday after New Year’s, Will bumped into Marjorie in the hallway and helped carry a hefty potted fern into her apartment. “She asked me how I was holding up,” He explained to me later, “she didn’t know who’d I lost, but recognized the same hollow kind of quiet when her husband died. The same as I told you, how I’m walking around, waiting for something. I can’t remember what it is, and nothing comes. The only thing that feels better is sleep.” I guess he ended up spending the next two hours there, just talking. She asked if he got her note, and wanted to let him know that even though she knew he was busy, her door was always open.
He looked around at her apartment. From her window overlooking the corner theater, to the farthest wall leading to her bedroom, something was sprouting; everything green and growing. “Spider plants and string of pearls hanging from the ceiling, succulents on layered shelves, a standing mirror tilted strategically so even the philodendron resting in the darkest corner could still catch sunlight.” He mused. She explained to him, “I’m allergic to cats and don’t have the legs I used to for walking a dog, but I love to give my time to this,” hands waving over her makeshift conservatory. “Didn’t know I had a knack for it ‘til I was 55.” She laughed. There is something about seeing someone with love, recognizing their missing pieces look just like yours.
Will visited her again that Saturday, bringing warm Reuben sandwiches from the diner two streets over. She had mentioned missing New York, and though he was slow to mention it first, he said any time she got too worked up, some minor curse word would slip out that she’d quickly cover with an apology. “My mom used to do that, too,” he added with a brief lift at the edge of his lips.
A tending to each other picked up. She left a paper bag of dry basil leaves out for us. Will asked if he could sneak her a slice of blackberry pie before I even brought it out to cool. We knew by the wailing through the night that Aiden, the Cooper’s son, caught some kind of fever. The three of us banded together to leave a bag of Campbell’s soup, a stuffed animal duck, and Otter Pops to lower his temperature. Marjorie started to check in on us both every couple of days, a welcome comfort to come home to. “Did you end up liking that movie? How’s your friend James doing? I bought too much sourdough, please have some.” It’s been months since I’ve heard the heaviness on the stairs. The energy at home shifted. All that’s felt is the sun’s slow rise in the west window, a harsh winter kindly loosening its grip; some nights, laughter in the living room.
When Will told Marjorie he was applying for a better job, she sent a quick text assuring he’d do great.
You’re doing wonderfully. I’m so proud of you, I hope you know.
I hope that isn’t weird to say.
with love,
schuyler (sky-ler)
venmo: schuylerpeck