tina kerry i was the only one who still hadn't met tina. she had a white front door with black trim and a fat yellow wreath hanging on the front. whenever i open or close my curtains i see tina's door--the bright white, yellow, and black--and how it contrasts to the drabness of the city, and my eyes just want to lick up all those colors. one morning she spotted me. i was coming out of the house and she was standing on her front stoop, hand resting on the black rail. she called across the street, "Come over here so I can meet you!" Yes ma'am. her face seems so clean and delicate. her hair is completely white but styled. in her ivory pantsuit, hose with her sandals, and gold jewelry, she could be the what-if-one-day Princess Di. She says my name the way they all say it here, like they're flattening it down. Things are different here. "I've lived here for 95 years," she says--no, announces--to me, leaning down over the railing to look into my eyes. her eyes are blue, very blue. and beautiful. "95 years!" she repeats. "I was born in this house." I notice that she's left her front door open, and i steal glance very quickly--the carpet is thick green plush, and I can see some kind of brass something-- I am dying to see the inside of Tina's house. She doesn't look 95, with her tailored clothing and posture that's better than mine. She still vibrates with life. My grandmother is 94. She moves as well as Tina but she hasn't remembered where I lived or what I've been up to for over 10 years. Tina talks about how the neighborhood's changed, how she doesn't know the whole block anymore like she used to, like when she was younger and if you were sick everyone knew it (well first of all everyone knew everything anyway) and would just come by and bring you spaghetti and meatballs and pitch in. Tina still drives. She has a nice car. She goes to services on Sundays at St Monica's down the street. But I don't see her with anyone, or any animals--not even a cat, drowsy in a sunny window. one morning i was walking my dog and she said both as if she could never imagine it possible and as if she truly wanted to know, "why would you want to have a dog?" and i said "because they teach you how to love." 210731 ... kerry i started to worry about tina. she’s nearly a hundred years old and still lives in the house where she was born, across the street and catty-cornered from mine. i admired her house even before we moved here; it has a plain brick face but the front door is clearly antique, the kind you can’t buy anymore, only envy, painted bright white with black trim. the knob is round and as big as an onion, set right in the center of the door. she has a wreath for every season and a heavy stone planter on the front stoop, and when she changes the wreath she changes the flowers in the planter to match. at some point i realized the flowers must be artificial, but they look real. my favorite wreath is a yellow one, dense with bright yellow fabric flowers. marigolds, maybe. i was worried because it’s march and she still hasn’t changed her christmas wreath. fir with bits of frost, red holly berries and an elegant red fabric bow that droops instead of being puffed up with wires. i thought maybe i should find a reason to knock on her door, maybe i should bring her a cannoli. she’d said once that she missed how the block used to be, that when if you were sick the neighbors all knew and would bring you spaghetti and soup. even at her age she still drives her silver cadillac and brings her groceries into the house without help but she’s so old, you never know. yesterday i saw her in the doorway saying goodbye to a guy who looks about my age, kind of slim with longish brown hair, and she was chattering and gesturing so it seemed like she felt alright. i was relieved, and i went down the block and across the street to cacia’s to pick up some hoagie rolls and a round loaf to last the weekend. as i left the same guy came in, and the women in the bakery greeted him like they’d known him forever. 220304 ... kerry apparently i forgot that i’d already written an homage to tina and her wreaths and beautiful door. ah, well. 220304 what's it to you? who go blather from