I just learned my neighbor died a month ago. I'd had a feeling something was wrong, for though my work schedule is erratic at best, and our occasional good morning's and other greetings notably intermittent, it had been a few weeks since I'd seen any activity at his house at all. A couple of weeks ago, I waved to a couple of previously-seen relatives, well-dressed and somber, driving away from his home as I pulled up to mine, and as there's been no answer at his door this last week when I attempted to deliver a couple of bills reliably and incorrectly delivered to my mailbox, my suspicions increased. Tonight, on a whim, I searched the local newspaper's obituary column and there it was, an entry describing the fine gentleman whose acquaintance I made the same autumn I moved into my house and he into his, both of us recent divorcees, both of us devoted fathers, both of us gladly possessing the kind of congenial demeanor you want from a neighbor, regardless of your differences in age or occasional meetings.
And so, another good man I've had the honor of knowing - if only briefly to share news headlines, updates on our sons, complaints of our postal carriers and garbage men, and the ever-present but never-fulfilled invitation to someday come over to one or the other's home for a beer - has died. And it doesn't matter the measure of the depth of our relationship, or the drinks we didn't share, or the great gladness I have in remembering his company - I feel the loss of this good man and I'm sorry. Sorry that I didn't know him better, sorry that he fought so hard and painfully these last couple of years, sorry that other men I know who don't deserve to be spit on were they on fire continue to live, sorry that I wasn't a better neighbor, a better man.
Good on you, Mr. Acosta. Thank you for your friendship, your neighborhood, your interest in my sons, your time shared with me, however brief, however passing. I'll remember you always with warm fondness and some regret. Thank you for being.
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