The old oak tree that I used to admire from my youth collapsed in a storm, killing Mr. and Mrs. Jankowitz. They were an elderly couple who moved next door to my parents upon two decades ago.
We had little to do with one another. They were the types to garden, play classical music out their windows while sipping tea. They’d wave as we walked to our car, but weren’t much for small talk.
One day, I attempted to strike up a conversation with the wife. It was a chilly summer morning. There were tears in her eyes. She seemed to be shivering on a stone bench near the border of my parents’ property.
“You okay, there?” I asked.
Mrs. Jankowitz shrugged. “Life,” she mumbled.
“I hear that,” I replied, grabbing the fence like it was about to tumble over. “It can be rough.”
“Yes,” she sighed.
“If you need to talk,” I started, but she interrupted me with a hand in the air.
“Talking isn’t necessary, Clive,” she said. How she knew my name surprised me. I never formally introduced myself to her. My parents neither, as far as I know. “Go back inside. Or go elsewhere. This will pass.”
That was last summer. I never saw her again after that.
The night of the storm, I stayed with my parents. They needed a strong man to watch over them. After years in the gym, perfecting the pull-up, I knew that if there was any major destruction, I could literally pull us out of the rubble.
Our house went untouched. The Jankowitz house, a complete disaster.
As a family, we might go to their funeral. We might be the only ones, for all I know.
Can’t say I’ll miss them, per se. But there was something about their artful silence that may never appear in that neighborhood again. Only time will tell.
