In my early twenties, I made rash decisions. I wanted to live my life with no regrets. And in doing so probably created many more. But they were minor, easily forgotten little moments. I used to believe I could live my whole entire life and come to the end of it, regretting nothing at all.

How foolish that seems now.

There are your big regrets. Usually having to do with a loved one’s passing. Or leaving.

There are the little regrets. Why did I eat that last cookie? It wasn’t even good.

And then there are the regrets that sneak up on you and you never even knew they were there until it was too late to do anything about them. Formed from making no choice at all. Or rather putting off a decision or task until a choice was made for you.

We will call those regrets our wrinkle regrets.

One day your face is smooth and clear and the next day a wrinkle has appeared. There is nothing to be done for it. Oh, you could, if you really wanted to, fill it with poison to make it appear smooth. But you will still know it is there. And worry over it. Perhaps even more than before.

And the thing about poison is, well… it burns.

I have a wrinkle regret of my own. Okay, I have many. And the older I get, the more that appear. It is the way that it is. There is no changing it.

But we will only be discussing one of them today. A deep wrinkle. This one sometimes lodges itself in my heart and chants, “you are not a good person.” As most deep regrets do. On our moral compass of life, they are the cracks. The waving lines. The times when we have to give the compass a good thump to make it work again.

One of my deep wrinkles of regret involves an elderly woman that lived two houses down from me.

We moved into our home eleven years ago. We were, oh, so young. We only had one child at the time with no plans on expanding our brood. The house was perfect for us. Eighteen hundred square feet on a third of an acre with tons of privacy. This was a rarity in the cookie cutter houses that we could afford.

I had grown up in the middle of nowhere. On an isolated honey farm. Our closest neighbors were all half of a mile away and they happened to both be related to me.

When I moved to the suburbs, I hated being surrounded by people. People who could see my business. Hear my business. Know my business. It was a completely different world for me. And I quarantined myself from any social invasion.

I did enjoy the little things. Pizza delivery still thrills me each and every time the doorbell rings. Coffee shops and restaurants within walking distance are a thing of luxury. And running out of milk is no longer a reason to panic.

But, still, I have never gotten used to having strangers live so close to me. I think it is a concept that will always challenge my heart.

All this to say, I am not a very good neighbor. I will wave at you. I will deliver Christmas treats. But that is the most you will see of me. And I much prefer it that way.

No apologies. No regrets. Except for this one time…

When our houses on our street were built twenty two years ago, a nurse and her husband bought a two story home to retire into. It was many miles from anyone that they knew. But they were excited for the future. It was a starting over point for them. They had never had any children and they were looking forward to learning to play golf and taking road trips together to experience all that their new surroundings held for them. They waited months for the home to be built. A month before they were scheduled to move in, the husband, very suddenly and unexpectedly, passed away.

The woman was home at the time. She was a registered nurse. She had worked all of her life helping others and fell to pieces when she could not help her husband.

Their current home was all ready sold. Their money had gone into the new home. The home with all of their plans and dreams that would never occur now waited for her. And so she traveled there. By herself. Shrouded in a cloud of depression. Towards a brand new dwelling that was confused to find itself all ready worn down with memories from the past.

Eleven years she lived there before we would buy our house two doors down.

Eleven years. In a home filled with sadness. She did not leave her house. She did not brush her hair. She had become invisible. The house had a living ghost and nobody cared. As long as she kept the chains and the moaning down, nobody bothered her at all. Nobody visited. Nobody knew her. Nobody she became.

I first became aware of Eleanor when she shuffled over to the mail box one day as I was getting my own mail from our box. She had white hair sticking up in all directions. She was wearing a faded floral mumu nightgown and slippers with holes in the toes. She smiled at me and introduced herself. I introduced myself and that was that.

We exchanged the same routine sporadically for the next year. I did not know her story at the time. I was still building my own.

I believe it was not until my son had turned two that I finally spoke to her. Really spoke to her. Or rather, she spoke to me. I was getting my mail, as usual, when Eleanor came bursting out of the house. She said she was intent on making changes. Getting out more. Doing new things. I heard about her husband and the tragedy that had occurred before she came to dwell on our street and also about her being a nurse.

I vowed to myself that I would make more of an effort with Eleanor. Take her to coffee. Visit more often.

But good intentions are only as good as their follow through.

I visited Eleanor but two times before she moved away four years ago. Once to bring her by homemade cookies, the next to simply check in on her.

The year before she moved away, I did not see her at all. And suddenly, she was gone. A company appeared one day and moved her and her belongings out. The very next day a “For Sale” sign appeared in the front yard. The last time I saw Eleanor, she was standing outside, her mumu more weathered than ever. She, herself, more gaunt and thin than before. I raised my hand in a wave. It was not returned. It was instead met with a steely cold resistence.

And I deserved it.

Eleanor once gifted my children two old board games. They are unique. Incredibly cool. I feel guilt whenever I see them.

I could make excuses. But if deep regrets are the wrinkles on our soul, than excuses are the pimples. They never do any good. They always leave a mark. They can be filled with poison of their own. And if the pimple of excuse is wretched enough, it can even leave a scar.

Best to just own that I wish I had handled things differently with Eleanor.

Tried harder.

Made more of an effort.

Was less selfish.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I wonder about her each and every time I drive by her old house. A new family has moved in there. They, if this is at all possible, are even more anti-social than myself.

I worry about where Eleanor has gone. If she is happy. Is she still wearing that nightgown or has she finally changed?

I worry.

I regret.

I have the wrinkle to show for it.

And it is not.

Will never be.

Enough.