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When you’ve had the same neighbor for over forty years, they become more than someone who lives next door. They become part of your rhythm, part of your days. That was Doris for me.
We both moved to Waynesville, North Carolina, in 1982, me with my husband, her with her two boys and a head full of determination. She was the kind of woman who baked extra banana bread “just in case” and showed up at your door with a flashlight during a storm, whether you wanted her to or not.
Every morning at 7:30, we had coffee on her porch. Rain or shine. We didn’t talk about anything important most days, just chatted about the garden, the town gossip, and which one of us forgot where we left our reading glasses this time. But those quiet moments became the backbone of my days. When my husband passed, she was there. When her youngest went off to college, I baked her a peach cobbler. We were each other’s constants.
So when she told me last month that her daughter was moving her to Charlotte to be closer to family and doctors, I felt the air get thin. She tried to soften it with a laugh, saying her porch swing would be lonely without me. But I could see the weight in her eyes, the same sadness I felt in my chest.
We didn’t make a fuss about it. That last morning, we just sat there with our mugs, looking out over the misty hills. It felt like the mountains were holding their breath with us.
She reached over, took my hand, and said, “This isn’t goodbye forever. It’s just goodbye for now.” I nodded, even though I knew the road to Charlotte felt a lot longer than the miles said.
When her son came to load the last box, I helped her to the car, hugged her tighter than I ever had, and whispered, “I’ll keep your spot warm.”
That porch is quiet now. But I still make coffee at 7:30, and I still sit outside. It’s not the same, of course. But I do it anyway.
Because saying goodbye is hard.
But honoring the love that made it hard, that’s the beautiful part.
