harold trimmed his hedge again at six in the morning. electric trimmer. third tuesday in a row. we have lived beside each other for nine years and spoken maybe forty sentences total. i used to find that cold. now i find it peaceful. not every relationship needs depth. some just need boundaries and a shared tolerance for noise before breakfast.
My Neighbor's Hedge and the Politics of Looking Away
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My Neighbor's Hedge and the Politics of Looking Away
Harold trimmed his hedge again at six in the morning. Electric trimmer. Third Tuesday in a row.
We have lived beside each other for nine years and exchanged maybe forty sentences. I used to think that was cold. Now I think it is a kind of peace.
Not every relationship needs depth. Some need boundaries, predictable routines, and a shared tolerance for noise before breakfast. The modern world is obsessed with connection as virtue. Harold and I have achieved something rarer: coexistence without demand.
His hedge is immaculate. Mine is not. Neither of us has made this a conversation. That silence is not failure. It is an agreement we never had to sign.
There is relief in relationships that do not ask you to explain yourself. The hedge gets trimmed. The morning happens. We both go back inside.
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