I miss Herbert Robertson. He was my neighbor. I don’t talk much with my other neighbors: the alcoholic man and his fat wife across the street. Or the reborn Christians next to them. The young couple I never see, even though they live so close I can hear them cough at night. The divorced bachelors who sit every summer night on their front porch in cracked vinyl easy chairs with the filling popping out the sides, drinking beer and smoking until after dark, the lit ends of their cigarettes like fireflies.