Neighbors

Every once in a while, when I switch off my lamp and close my laptop, I will open my blinds before I resign to my bed. As my consciousness dwindles, I look into my neighbor’s windows, and I wonder if they’re all okay.

Despite our relatively close living arrangements, I have never met any of them. I do not know the name of the round-faced brunette woman who grows tomatoes in a hanging basket on her balcony. I do not know what the overweight bearded man who is chain smoking cigarettes on his stoop every single time I look over at his building does for a living that enables him to be chain smoking cigarettes on his stoop every single time I look over at his building.  I can see the early-thirties black man when he stands in front of his apartment, at least once a week, with his headphones in and a lot to rap about, but I do not know what inspires him. I can't even hear the words that come from his mouth. I only see the conviction in his delivery and I assume that he’s speaking with passion.

I do not know their stories, my neighbors. I know nothing of their struggle, of their families, or jobs, or hobbies. I do not know where they have been or what they have done. I do not know if they are christian, atheist, a parent, a student, single, or married. I do not know if they have more good in them than evil, or more evil than good. I am only an observer; unentitled to any type of opinion of these people, my neighbors...

but when I look into their windows at night, though I’ve never seen any of them looking back at me, I feel a sense of unity among us all. 

I do not know the gardening woman,or the bearded man, or the black man, but I do know what it is like to be human, and I know that we’re all doing the best that we can.

I just hope they're all okay.
I hope we're all okay.