The House Next Door

I strolled toward the mailbox when I suddenly felt lighthearted and found myself almost skipping lazily down the sloping hill. The sun beat down as the wind beautifully rearranged the pavement with leaves, red maple leaves mixed with yellow ash as if in a dance of nature’s design. I thought how wonderful it was to be October and here I was in shorts and sandals.  The warm air held just a hint of brisk with the cold Minnesota winter soon approaching and yet, it was such a lovely day. I reached into the mailbox where I found a handwritten letter.  On it, beautiful cursive spelled my name. I noticed there was no stamp, no post mark, indicating it had been hand delivered.

I ripped the letter open with anticipation and upon seeing the name at the bottom of the letter, thoughts of bittersweet remembrance ran through my head, as well as excitement of what the contents may hold.  I wanted to read the letter in its entirety with complete concentration, so I placed it back in the envelope and anxiously went inside.  Our home was a two-story structure with an open staircase separating the main living area from the rest of the first floor.  Painted sage green in the main area and dark red with cream-colored accents in the remaining rooms, the colors warm and welcoming, and so, I liked to think, were we. I made a hot cup of coffee and sat down on the worn leather sofa near the fireplace in the den while I read each word carefully.  It was the coziest room in our home and the perfect place to read what I expected to be an important message.  

The letter was from a young man who had once lived next door. He was a small child at that time, who moved away with his father and sister, when he was about five or six, a few years after his mother passed away. His mother, my friend, found out she had breast cancer at the age of thirty-six.

His sister was the oldest and my daughter’s best friend.  She was a sweet young girl, who would have been no more than six years old when her mother passed.  The unbearable loss of these two young children would remain with them throughout their lives. The thought that this youngest child had taken the time to return and to write to me after so many years, touched me deeply.

I smiled while recalling years past, running over to our house time and time again as a young toddler.  Not much more than a baby at the time, picking flowers from my garden and then he would hand them to me as if they were a gift, several shades of pink impatiens from the front yard, and my precious yellow, pink and white dahlias from the backyard, roots and all, hanging from the bottom of the beautiful blooms recently yanked from the ground. This sweet boy had the biggest grin with his gift bearing expression shining brightly.

I was never angry that he pulled my recently planted annuals. I loved that he found it in his heart to want to give me flowers, and my heart always went out to him and his sister, for the life they imagined but would never experience, at least not with their mom. Now this young man was here, twenty years later, running to my house again, in a sense.

Thoughts of happier days ran through my head when his mother would confide in me, and often exhibited a strength that appeared superhuman to those of us who could not comprehend what it must be like to live in her shoes. The children, always a delight to be around, would come to our home daily, the little one, often several times a day. I welcomed their visits and thought of it as lending a hand.

The parents knew the children were safe in our home and the time in our house provided my friend with time to refresh and gather strength to handle her young toddlers, as well as her illness.

There was the day when during nap time, this sweet young boy fell out of his first-floor bedroom window.  His caregiver was the one napping it seems, as he showed up at my back door, looking just a little frazzled, wanting to play.

We had not heard from this young family since their move. Their leaving shortly after their devastating loss was filled with sadness and broke our hearts. The letter was healing in sense and brought back a wave of emotion.

He wrote that he had lived all this time with his father’s family, seemingly estranged from the mother’s relatives. Writing that he yearned for memories of the past, of his mom. He came back to the house next door looking for those memories.  The home is a gray multi-level structure that has a beautiful view of a state park seen through a wall of floor to ceiling windows.  It would be understandable to miss living in the unique layout and beautiful home.  When reminiscing he mentioned thinking that they would allow a tour to see once more the place he spent the first years of his life.   Confident they would let him in because of the rainbow sticker on the SUV that was spotted parked in the driveway, a symbol that meant acceptance..  He anxiously approached asking to see the home, yet  was turned away. 

I later explained that they did not allow a tour because while to him it may be hard to comprehend, to them, he was a strange man in the neighborhood.  The homes were closely monitored within the cul-de-sac and few doors were approached by people who were unknown. He took the rejection to heart, at first, not understanding the first impression of the neighbors next door.

 The letter was a result of that experience. As he sat in the driveway of the house next door in his car, clearly downhearted as he wrote about yearning for memories of the life barely remembered prior to the death of his mother, sealing the envelope he placed it in my mailbox and drove away.

I folded the letter and knew that I was folding something incredibly special, the love and incredible loss in this young life reaching out to find his sweet memories. I immediately called the number he had left, and we planned to reunite, together with my own now adult, children, who came over to reminisce with this long-lost neighbor, the man who once was so dear to all of us.  My own daughters feeling a strong connection to the family, especially my younger child who had a special bond with all of them, particularly the boy’s sister who was her age.

He arrived at my door wearing a UofM college jersey and jeans, designer tennis shoes and a leather book bag, looking very adult.  The only resemblance to the toddler we knew was in his unmistaken grin, those huge brown eyes and wavy brown hair that I had seen so many times running through my yard. He looked just as surprised as we did at the change in appearances and yet  warmheartedly embraced us all.  Shortly after the arrival, he was able, with me as an escort, to visit the house next door.

He walked through it slowly, cautiously, as if looking for a diamond in the sand, with searching eyes and little expression. He looked around the first level and with some hesitation climbed the stairs, step by step pondering each one as if to seal the memory of the upward climb.  Soon descending but deciding not go to the lower level, stopped short of a full tour. His hands sunk deeply into his pockets and eyes down, as if he was seeing only a vision, perhaps one of introspection, perhaps of resignation. He looked up momentarily with blank eyes and said, “I’m done here!”

I knew from the look on his expressionless face that the tour did not offer him what he was seeking and appeared to be deeply disappointing. I worried that it only added to his sadness.  He did not say more at first, nor did I.

Sensing that silence was best for what he had experienced, not knowing what that was, I knew it was deeply personal. It was not my place to ask, yet I knew he would tell me if he wanted to.

Later that night we shared a wonderful evening back at my house. Memories, pizza, and a lot of laughter while remembering the cute little toddler boy and his foibles. There was a time he fed the fish by sticking his whole arm in the water and the times he just walked in our house without invitation or pause, knowing he was welcome here. We all shared in the reconnection with immense joy. He seemed genuinely happy to spend the time with us. Yet at the same time, I sensed the introspection and a hint of sadness in this grown and very complicated young life.

We promised to stay in touch, knowing that most people who say that do not, and yet, we felt this was different.  As the story continued, it turned out that my role was to play only this chapter where he came home in a sense, but only to find his real family. My role, this one evening, one additional letter and no more. 

Later that night I almost burst into tears with love  when I read his post on-line, as it showed up in my feeds, I clicked right away to read what he wrote about the experience.  The post read that he felt nothing but emptiness when finally getting to visit the home where he spent the first years of his life.  Continuing that it was just a house, that it felt cold, it felt small, but then added, he found the love was still in the house next door. 

It made me realize it must not be about what you had or did not have in life but how you felt. He was searching for the love and memories from his early childhood and found some piece of that love, that acceptance, those memories, not in a place, but in our presence.

It is a powerful memory for him. Powerful for me and my family. A memory we will always treasure.

I contacted this young man’s maternal family shortly after this. I recalled his grandfather once told me, “If these kids ever need us, I want you to let me know.”  I researched contact information and wrote a letter of my own.

I explained to the grandfather that I remembered his words and that his grandson is searching for memories of his mom, and the love of family. As I promised I let him know that his grandson needed him now, even though many years had passed. I didn’t know how the relationship had become estranged and prayed the grandfather didn’t either or that it no longer mattered. 

I never got a response from the letter so cannot confirm it was received, but I heard shortly after  that they had been reunited and actually living together, grandfather and grandson.

I realized that I may have made a difference in his life. I remain thankful, grateful, and inspired at the thought. I like to imagine the healing that occurred and pray that it did. 

I imagine his grandfather’s voice, gruff yet loving and warm and welcoming saying, “Come in sweet child, welcome home!”

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