-A quiet reflection on closeness and responsibility, the poem reminds us that being a neighbor is not about agreement, but about showing up for the people nearest to us when it matters most.
The word used to be small.
Close enough to hear through walls.
Close enough to borrow sugar
without explanation.
It did not mean agreement.
It did not mean likeness.
It meant proximity
and the responsibility that came with it.
Somewhere along the way
the word stretched too far.
It became abstract.
Conditional.
Something to be earned
instead of noticed.
We began to ask questions
before offering help.
We learned to measure worth
from a distance.
A neighbor is not a belief.
Not a vote.
Not a sign in a yard
or a sentence online.
A neighbor is the light still on
when yours goes out.
The sound of footsteps
when you fall.
My mother never defined the word.
She demonstrated it.
A casserole without commentary.
A phone call without curiosity.
A knock that assumed need
without demanding proof.
She did not ask
who they were
before showing up.
We complicated what was simple.
We drew lines
where fences already stood.
We mistook privacy for permission
to ignore one another.
We forgot that shared ground
is still shared
even when we argue
about what it should be called.
A neighbor is a verb.
It requires action.
Presence.
Risk.
It means staying
when leaving would be easier.
Listening
without preparing a defense.
Imagine if we remembered.
Not loudly.
Not ceremonially.
Just this.
Seeing who is closest
and choosing not to look away.
Calling them what they are.
Not ally.
Not enemy.
Neighbor.