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2001-06-10 | 9:44 a.m.

Getting out of the car, I noticed my neighbor, Carmela, standing behind her wrought-iron gate. She is in her '70s; has diabetes. She's Italian and the kids call her Nonni because she likes them to. They talk to her through the fence, and they climb up to the top and she hands them chocolates. She's very loving and always tells me I'm beautiful, though I'm not. She has trouble getting around, but every day she comes out and waters her plants. Most of her garden is real, some of it is artificial, but the overall effect is of a lush rainforest. She told me she won an award for it once from the newspaper, but really, it was the previous owner who put it all in years ago. I feel guilty seeing her, thinking about her, because I know she is lonely and I don't make a concerted effort to see her. I ought to visit her once a week and take her dinner on a foil-covered plate. Sometimes I see the Meals on Wheels driver delivering food to her house. She can't walk up my stairs because of her health. On the rare occasions when I do go over there, she doesn't seem to hear me knocking. Sometimes she takes a nap in the afternoon.

Today she tells me that she was robbed about two weeks ago. They think it was somebody she knows. They took her jewelry, including a cameo that belonged to her mother. Inside there was a picture of her mother as a young woman. Not terribly valuable on the open market, but irreplaceable. She starts to cry a little when she tells me. Also all her crosses. Her son says he will speak to the housekeeper. Carmela reminds me that her son lives a few hours away. She reminds me, too, that her daughter lives two blocks away, but only comes about twice a month. Her daughter is glamorous and married to a judge. Carmela says she sees me with my mother and wishes she had a daughter like me.

It is heartbreaking, really. I've never met her daughter but I don't like her. I don't like myself, either, for not exerting a little more effort in her direction. I always want to think of some treat I could take her that isn't bad for her diabetes. What she really wants is company, and I'm very selfish about my time. Maybe I can set a private goal to visit on a certain day of the week. I will train myself so that when it's that day, I will think of Carmela. But even saying this, I have trouble committing myself to a day. My mind resists the command even as it orders me to set a day, damn it. Okay, Monday. Monday. Monday is Carmela's day. Help me do it, diary.

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