At 2am, I'm standing in the rented garage, staring at the snow shovel I haven't used all winter.
The neighbor's light is on too. His grown kid moved back home last month. I saw her car in the driveway.
I don't knock. I know better.
What I think about instead is the old barber on Grand Avenue. He cut my hair from age six until he retired.
He knew when not to talk. When I was fourteen and my mother was sick, he just snipped and let the silence sit.
No questions. No advice. Just the sound of scissors and the weight of someone not running away.
Tonight, that silence is what I reach for. I sit on the cold garage floor and let it hold me.
The neighbor's lamp clicks off. I stay a while longer.
Some company only arrives after midnight, and it never says a word.