I watched her fade from sparkling stars in her eyes to wilted roses in her cheeks.
Always ready with a hello and a word of friendship, the neighborhood benefited from the two handfuls of folks who kept the town feeling small. Not small in a bad way, but small in the way that people know you when you go out. Some know how you like your coffee, others will knock for sugar when they are hard up and can’t get to the store because the car is busted again.
Her dark hair, graying at the temples, turned white with disappointment that I didn’t know her well enough to ask about, but I recognized it as something I was on the fringes of.
Then she cut her hair, not in some cute bob with a lift on the ends, but chopped harshly like something she would not miss, just below her ears.
One day she appeared with a limp, the daily bike ride to work gone, she walked the blocks, one foot slightly dragging.
I asked her what had happened, and she said a chill had come in through the window one night while she slept, and her hip was never the same.
She occasionally smiled if I smiled first, her face care-worn and listless, her eyes never quite meeting mine.
Then one day– I realized she was gone.
Between seasons
the bluejays are all but gone
the air is so quiet
Are You Thrilled 
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