My first reaction was rather dismissive: “Well, she had a long life, and it was time,” I told myself. Not until I passed the news on to my husband did my mixed bag of feelings surface.

“Oh, no!” Fred mourned. “Things won’t be the same around here. I’ll miss her.”

I felt a colossal stab of guilt. I wasn’t so sure I’d miss the nosy old lady across the street who loved gossip and watched us like a hawk.

Fred said he’d miss the early morning ritual of moving her newspaper from lawn to doorstep. He’d miss the evening ritual of waving as he passed her kitchen window on the way home.

He recalled admiring her dual-purpose band saw, which she used to split frozen filet mignon into manageable portions to fit her dwindling appetite—and to cut metal tubes for her distinctive wind chime creations.

He wondered how it would be to raise our flag on a national holiday without Marge hoisting hers in response. That was their arrangement because he was usually more sure of what day it was than she was.

No more sprinklers to fix. No more taking her baby blue 1966 “mint condition” Thunderbird out on the freeway for exercise. No more first-hand town history tales.

I felt terrible. Bad that I wasn’t as caring as Fred. Sad that I was supposed to feel differently than I did. Mad there was no way to avoid sorting out the truth of my relationship, or lack of it, with Marge.

Fred went off to telephone a neighbor for details. I tuned the TV to Jeopardy! and competed for answers to easier questions while pounding veal into see-through scaloppini.

After dinner, as I pulled the living room shade, I realized I had never lowered or raised it in four years without thinking of Marge. Without concern about closing her out or wondering about letting her in.

Shortly after we moved in, Marge invited us to her cocktail hour: one Bombay gin martini straight up with a Spanish olive. From her kitchen counter, the view took us straight through our own picture window across the way. Fred called it her command post. From her perch, she could keep tabs on everyone in the neighborhood.

When she came for tea, she told me her life story “except for the really sexy parts,” which she wanted to save so she’d have something new to tell later on. Soon I realized our “conversations” were one-sided. She chattered—about sex, death, other people, her short marriage, loneliness—and I listened. If I tried to talk, she would point out she didn’t have her hearing aid in. When I finally understood she needed more from me than I could give willingly, I pulled away.

Although I still waved as I passed her window, or stopped for quick hellos, all major communication happened through Fred. He can chat and easily say good-bye in ways that I cannot.

Birthday cards, garden tomatoes, fresh-baked cookies, well wishes—all crossed the road via Fred Express. I wondered how she felt, until Fred reported a message clearly intended for me: “Marge says she understands Gemini people are fickle.”

Remembering that, I decided we’d had a relationship too complex to sort out. I finished closing the shades and went to bed.

A few days later, I waved automatically as I drove past the command post. Without warning, I burst into tears.

No return wave. No smiling face in the window. No raised martini glass. No Marge.  A hole in the universe.

I knew more about what Fred missed: a part of our lives gone, some kind of security whisked away, home base changed forever. But I also felt something deeper. A part of me had gone with her. A part of her remained behind. Beneath our differences lay the inseparable connectedness of us all.

As I got out of the car, I heard the clear tones of the wind chimes Marge had made for us with her band saw.

Whenever my mother dug up a lie I thought was safely buried in kryptonite, she’d say, lips smugly pursed, “A little birdie told me.”

Needless to say, my view of birds in those days ran more to the image of ratfink than to feathered friend. Later, though, the ancient wisdom of other cultures taught me how to listen differently, how to appreciate birdspeak.

And now, the birds have revealed yet another talent in their repertoire of communication skills. Their lesson unfolded a few days ago when my husband stopped me on my way through our sunroom.

“Don’t spray that tree with the hose,” he said, pointing through the French doors toward a dwarf pine in the courtyard garden.

I’ve lived with Fred, master of indirect communication, long enough to know he could be bouncing commands to himself off of me.

Besides, innocence was mine. I rarely touch a hose unless the house is on fire. And, as the whole neighborhood knows, it’s Fred who suffers withdrawal pangs when drought warnings curtail his beloved weekend escapades as Hoseman.

So I didn’t take the bait. I asked, “Why not?”

“They’re building a nest.” He pulled me closer to the window, and I saw a flicker of brown feathers.

“The male is the bigger one with the red breast,” he said. “The little drab brown one is the female.”

He looked at me pointedly, and I knew that he was continuing our argument of last night about whether to get new shutters put on the house. It was a simple dispute made complex by the nature of opposites. His basic philosophy claims “More is better.” Mine runs more to “When in doubt, leave it out.”

Continuing with his bird lore as a way of indirectly assessing my shutters IQ, Fred asked, “How come in nature it’s the male bird that’s always the beautiful one?”

In that moment, he looked to me every bit like a showy peacock with tail fully fanned. What I heard through the translation in my head was “What do you mean, you think we should just rip the two existing shutters off the house rather than add new ones to the bare windows?”

So I took the bait.

“Because the male is all ego and pride,” I shot back. “It’s the female who knows humility.”

“Oh? So what’s humility?”

“Have you ever experienced what it’s like to know you’re about to lay an egg, and there’s not a thing you can do about it?”

His eyes widened. “That sounds like humility, all right!”

He took a minute to collect his defense: “Then why do women paint themselves and wear those wild earrings?”

“So men can see them!” The words flew out of my mouth like crazed hummingbirds. “The male is so arrogant and stuck on himself that the female has to do something to get noticed. Meanwhile” (I was really on a roll) “she’s also out there laying all those eggs and keeping the world going around.”

Silence.

“I never thought of it that way,” he said.

“Me either.” I felt a little singed by my own hot air. In a war of words, it always looks as if I win.

We watched the birds. The red-breasted one brought a twig to the waiting beak of the little brown one and flew off again for another. There was a grace to their quiet cooperation.

No arrogance in her humility. No pride in his beauty.

A peacefulness settled between us, and I realized the truth about the shutters. The truth is, I have little interest in and even less talent for house decor. Particularly the outsides of houses. I guess I thought women are supposed to be naturally good at that. But it’s Fred who is the home beautifier.

The red-breasted bird sailed into the tree with another offering for the nest. Fred and I leaned against each other, my shoulder nudging his in apology as we watched. Sometimes the little things are the toughest to tell the truth about.

“You’re right about the shutters,” I offered.

“Thank you,” he said. “And you’ve got a great way with words.”