The table stands next to the front door, up the stairs or down, depending on whether one is coming or going. The deep red color, now faded and worn around the edges, reminds me of New England autumns, where barns sit in fields of drying grasses, bracing for the coming snows.

The table saw its share of snowy Connecticut winters. Now, it serves in the mild Mediterranean climate of California’s central coast. Its main enemies are sunshine and scratches from things dropped or scraped along an edge. Grocery bags, recycling bins, and grandchildren brush by or bump against the graceful lines of its simple, sturdy design.

The table holds keys for cars and doors. They drop on the way in and scrape on the way out. The miscellany winds up in the miniature brass bathtub atop the wood. It is adorable, clanky, and whimsical.

A particular key, attached to a yellow plastic tab with “Marian’s Key” written in Sharpie, has been living in the tub for a while now. It looks like several others cut at the local True Value hardware store. The tag is always angled to the left, pointing across the street to where Marian’s house stands.

Much like its owner, the house is both simple and elegant. The more you get to know them, the more the sophistication and effortless ambiance delight and surprise. From the beautiful oak that shades the front to the “oh my!” delights of the outdoor spaces, there is no shortage of oases. What at first glance looks to be a single level unfolds into a multi-tiered journey into serenity. Outside, a turn to the right at the rear of the home reveals a luscious blooming preserve, rosemary bushes sharing their signature aroma with brilliant flowers and shrubs.

None of this happens by accident.

The home has evolved over the twelve years we have been neighbors. A thoughtful renovation, done lovingly over months, transformed the property. A soft sage green seats the place into the environment rather than imposing itself boastfully on the neighborhood.

The landscapes are all Marian. Many days, I look across the street to see her with a sun hat pulled low and garden gloves tight, wielding an arsenal of garden tools and, on occasion, brute strength to place, move, plant, gravel, and stone the perimeter. She’s never quite satisfied with how things lay but doesn’t grumble about it.

Soon, she will have a new place to transform, closer to her family, farther than the short walk across our shared street. Many friends and neighbors are both happy for her and sad for ourselves.

A lot of things change over twelve years. We age, we struggle. Families grow closer and move farther apart. Life brings health and heartache, each in a different measure. We selfishly hope for one more page, another delicious paragraph, a pithy phrase in a breath-stealing sentence. We slow, but we do not stop. We will move on to the next chapter and remember the stories that came before.

The red paint fades as the bathtub’s brass patina grows warmly tarnished. The yellow-tagged key’s title may rub away, but each color will remain vibrant in the picture etched in our hearts.