Lillian spoke with a strong German accent. Irene spoke perfect English.
Through the rustling of trees, the sound of the mother and daughter arguing, floated through the air, drifted over the road, and grabbed Angie's attention.
Day and after day, Angie watched Irene get out of her Honda Civic.
Sometimes Angie waved, sometimes she looked the other way.
Then one day, Angie received a phone call.
"I have two more weeks to live," Irene gulped.
Angie's heart dropped.
"My liver is destroyed. Cancer has spread."
"Isn't there something they can do?" Angie asked.
"Nothing more. I've called my lawyer and the funeral home. Hospice will be here today."
Two weeks later, like she said, Irene was dead. She was only forty-seven years old.
Four months after Irene died, Lillian had a garage sale.
Cars stopped.
Angie watched as people rummaged through a rack filled with
Irene's clothing: A shimmering gold dress, a white linen frock, and a maroon leather jacket.
Angie's blood pressure rose as ladies slid their feet into Irene's shoes: Heels, flats, and athletics.
When one woman opened and closed a handbag, Angie's stomach knotted. She wanted to yell, "leave it." Then, when the lady examined the leather's quality, slung it over her shoulder and smiled. Angie wanted to cry.
Gold chains that once graced Irene's slender neck hung on a black velvet stand. Combs and clamps that dazzled her long hair lay on a plastic tray.
Her hand-crafted holiday decorations clumped together, no longer needed, sold cheaply to anyone who wanted them.
Why didn't I take the time to know my neighbors? Angie asked herself.