Strangely enough, with the end of my high school days approaching, the thought of leaving my humble street of familiar faces makes my heart more weary than the thought of leaving my own family.   Don’t get me wrong: I love my family to death, and I will definitely shed many tears when I leave them for college.  But I know that my family will always be there.  They are infused in my bones.  My parents, grandparents, brother, cousin, and aunt are all at the core of my being, and I know that life will never take my away from them.  But my neighbors will fade away from my life, yet not from my memory, and this gives me an almost unbearable sense of sadness.
I moved to Ormond when I was almost three years old, just a shy little blonde child whose life revolved around her parents.  I have vague memories of first moving into my house, the house I still live in today.  I remember being too shy to say hello to my next door neighbors, Mike and Tajuana, so I would stand in front of the computer room window and wave at them when they walked by.  Mike and Tajuana now have two children: a shy little eight year old boy and a vivacious three year old girl, and both of them are growing up on the same street as I have.  Ed and Vicky, a sweet, sixty-something year old couple, have lived in the house across from me since before my family moved in.  I have waved hello to Vicky every morning before school, have heard her high-pitched “dog voice” countless times, calling in her dogs from the yard, and have stopped by her house on Halloween every year of my childhood for a special treat.  For years, it was a nightly routine to ride my scooter or rollerblades out front while my dad grilled dinner and shared drinks with Ed.  My old neighbor, Monty, taught me how to rollerblade when I was five.  Carol gives me heartfelt Christmas presents every year, and her sweet, smiling face brightens any drab day.  Carrie always gave me her daughter’s hand-me-downs, and when my favorite neighborhood cat, Bud, died, she told me that he went to live with her parents so I wouldn’t cry.  I used to walk across the street to the Decicco’s house and watch Dancing with the Stars with Amy, because she was my favorite adult and always seemed delighted to see me.  Now I babysit her two children, whom I have known since birth.  I know all of the neighborhood dogs, and can identify many of them just by the sound of their barks.  I remeber all of the specific Halloween and Christmas decorations that each family puts out every year.  I met some of my best friends from childhood at the clubhouse pool, any have many memories of summer days riding bikes or playing imaginary games of “peter pan” and “stranded on an island” in my backyard.  My neighbors and I have gone through tragedies together, have coped with multiple family and dog deaths.  My neighbors have bandaged my bloody knees and have made sure I was always a safe distance away from the road.
Steve, Sabrina, and Claire are three people that I strongly associate with my childhood.  The Jacks lived three doors to the right of us before they moved, almost ten years ago, to a different neighborhood in town. They came over for dinner just last weekend, and I pulled up a chair next to them as they played cards with my parents.  It was one o’clock in the morning, and I suddenly felt as if I were about to cry.  They have sat in my kitchen nook countless times, playing cards just like that, and that was going to be one of the last times I got to witness it.  Steve, in his thick Scottish accent, inquired to my mom, “do you remember when we first met?”  My mom went on to tell the story, which I have ever heard before.  It goes like this:
My parents heard a knock on the door one night around ten o’clock, about a month after we moved in, and were a little upset because it was so late at night.  They opened the door to Sabrina wearing an “I Dream of Genie” costume, drunkenly asking them to walk over to their halloween party.  My mom slowly shook her head and said “Claudia is asleep” and Sabrina replied with “Just put her in bed with Claire!”
My parents politely declined the offer, but after that they became family.  Claire, who is two years older than me, became my sister.  We spent all day between each other’s houses, riding our barbie jeeps or choreographing dance routines in her pool.  I drove to Elementary school with her everyday and spent nights at a time at her house.  We have gotten in a car crash together, have consoled each other when our dogs passed away, and years later, I waved her off to college.  When I think of my childhood, I think of that time we were at the Jack’s house late one night, and I acted like I was asleep so my dad would carry me home.  I think of the thousands of memories shared with them that have molded into one entity.  I think of how, after they moved away, the new people living in their house had to bring my aging dog Yogi  home because he kept wandering over to their house by himself and barking at their doorstep.  The Jacks moved away long ago, but we have kept in touch as much as life permits us to.  I cried (partially from being over tired)  after they left our house last weekend because it suddenly dawned on me that leaving for college would mean beginning a new life, one where my current and past neighbors are no longer relevant.  Moving away from home means leaving the street where most of my childhood memories took place.  Moving away from home means letting my neighbors fade into the background, to cross my mind once in awhile as memories from another lifetime.  Leaving my neighborhood means accepting that my childhood is over, that all of those years of family parties and playing outside and neighborhood adventures are gone, and will never again be experienced.  I  will raise my own kids in a neighborhood, and I will keep my own neighborhood family forever in my heart. 
I believe that  a deep bond exists between people who have conversations while letting their dogs out at the crack of dawn, still in pajamas, shaking the sleep from their eyes.  I believe that it is a special thing to have a whole street of people who are proud to have watched you grow up.  I believe that childhood is defined by the people it is spent with.  I believe that growing up with familiar faces always cheering me on has enhanced my outlook on my past, present, and  future potential.
I believe in neighbors.