Phil

Although our neighbor, Phil, was a funeral director by profession, he never seemed "the type." We never saw him in a suit, or in a somber pose in the 25-plus years we lived across the street from him. He had strawberry blonde hair, a jaunty walk, and could often be found, in good weather, taking the sun on the side deck with his wife, Debbie.

Yesterday, we heard Phil died. He was 65 and apparently died fairly soon after finding out he had advanced stomach cancer. It knocked me for a loop because he, like our other neighbors, are fixtures in our lives. Not that we're particularly close to one another, but we lived in each other's presence for a long time. We know each other's rituals. I looked forward to seeing Phil trim his dogwood tree in the spring, and seeing he and Debbie entertain their children (and grandchildren) at cookouts in the summer.

We probably only spoke to one another a handful of times - and the fact that he and Debbie were very private made us appreciate them all the more. Of course, we'd run into each other during major snowstorms when everyone was shoveling, or the time a tree branch knocked down the electrical wires and none of us could get down the street. In recent years, I could see that they bought a plasma TV and they were big Red Sox fans - we shared that, as well.

Now, I look across the street and see a lone light in that room with the TV. I wonder about Debbie and how she's doing. We wanted to send a card, or some flowers, but -- unbelievably -- we don't know their last name.