GOOD NEIGHBOR

by Arielle Arbushites

She waved with wild cheerfulness

from her back porch as I quietly

exited my car, my arms reaching

for boxes and keys. It was moving day.

“Hey!”

She smiled bigger than a cantaloupe crescent,

her dogs barking in circles around her pretty ankles

as she skipped closer to me in my cap

and dirty jeans. “We’re moving in,” I said.

She bobbed her head.

Her grin became wider and she broke

into a ramble of pure information,

of her grown son and her dogs;

and she was older than I, lovely and fit.

Her eyes remained lit.

“We should have wine at the fire pit!”

Her excitement to have a friend surrounded me

and she clapped her damn hands

when I mentioned my child’s wish

for a big trampoline. “Get him one!”

She seemed fun.

She waved with wild cheerfulness,

retreating to her back porch as I quietly

unlocked my new house to head inside,

begin unpacking. I let out a pleased sigh.

“Bye!”

I didn’t see her for days upon days.

I joked with my family that she was a ghost

and our conversation a figment of my brain;

where had she gone? I kept my eye

on her house to see if she’d pass by.

She’d been so eager, so engaging,

and I was confused, wanted to knock on her door,

but hesitated, not looking to bother, got busy,

got busier, then saw her. My smile was wide.

She walked back inside.

It was strange, it was odd,

I almost felt bent out of shape,

wondering the reason for her silence

as the seasons changed. It was bizarre

to just see her from afar.

It was hot one night and my window was open,

the one that faced her porch.

I was washing my face, a breeze barely present.

When I heard it, my spine tensed.

I knew what I sensed.

The voices, the shouting, like people were fighting,

but only one mouth was loud.

Not her, never her, just from a man,

her significant other. I’d seen him around.

He was in and out of town.

He bellowed profanity that rained on her head,

so I listened intently, ready to launch into action,

but she was so quiet, just pleading, as he slammed

the porch door. She cowered. I could do nothing noble.

I watched through the glass, immobile.

For two nights I heard him

banging and roaring, and one time I saw her

in late night lamp light on the back porch, weeping,

a silhouette of sobs. Now I keep a window cracked.

It’s like a mental contract.

I keep checking for safety, for a way to assist,

so she can feel seen, not judged, less alone,

but not make it worse. I’ll leave the light on.

We should talk. We should sit.

Can I help a bit?

We should have wine at the fire pit.