Last night, I found out that a family that lives on our our side of Third Street is moving.  I don’t even know their names. I guess I was relieved that they’re moving to Windsor Terrace and not Montclair or somewhere else in New Jersey.

At least it’s Brooklyn. And it’s not that far away

Their daughter will still  go to PS 321 so we will see them there. But she is in fifth grade and then she’ll graduate. And then who knows.

I think their daughter looks looks like an interesting girl: long hair, tomboy clothes, smart eyes.  They have a baby, too. I think the woman works as a reporter at a business magazine; the man is a scientist. They once had a stoop sale and there were lots of musical insturments, good CDs and books and her mother’s vintage shoes (oops. That was someone else’s stoop sale).

As is my habit, I’ve invented little stories about them. For years I thought he was a musician because of the guitar they sold at the stoop sale. When the baby was born, I thought the woman looked bedraggled and sad when her maternity leave was over and she had to go back to her daily work schedule. 

They live in the same building as the drummer in my son’s band: where the band practices, loudly, every Friday night. They are the people who telephoned during one practice; the band got the band all nervous. The drummer’s mother said: "The neighbors are on the phone…" One of the kids took the receiver and the woman said: "That Pixies’s song you’re playing is one of my favortie songs. Play it again."

And so they played the song, "Where is my Mind" again.

Tonight the woman said they’re going to come back and visit and listen to the band from the street. They even told their buyers that there is a band in the building. They’ve been warned.

My son is worried. Worried that the new neighbors will complain about the noise when they practice. He has reason to be concerned.

I am jealous and sad. Jealous because, well, you know me: they can afford to buy a house that will have lots of space, a garden, room for storage. And I’m sad that I won’t see them much anymore. Even though we never talk. Even though I don’t know their names. Even though I don’t really know them at all.

How do you honor the loss of someone you don’t really know but they walk past your stoop day after day and smile? That is a peculiarly New York City kind of loss. Do you just let them go in a New York minute or do you find some special way to say good bye?

I really don’t know. But here goes:

Good bye neighbors. I don’t even know your names. But  I liked having you on my side of Third Street. I really did.