Tonight when I was sitting on my roof reading my paperback copy of Somerset Maugham’s The Razor’s Edge, I looked over at my neighbor’s garden. The trees were straight and leafy, the flowers were orange and contented. Yet who was looking after them? During all the time I’d spent up here not once had I seen my neighbor–not once with soiled hands or ruddy knees, not once in faded clothes or slip-on shoes. I thought,
When I am here, she is not. When I am not, she must be.