Neighbors We Make

The parking lot is nearly full when I arrive. Half with cars, half with snow. Another once-in-a-generation storm that seems to hit every year. 

I’m here at First Watch on a Saturday to catch up with my cousin. It’s been a week since I’ve meaningfully left the house. For all of January, I wanted nothing more than to be wintering, practicing my knitting, reading cozy novels, baking muffins. And I did enjoy it, for a while.

I leave my phone in other rooms. I try to work. I go for walks when the temperature stretches above 20 degrees. But a familiar weight creeps in again, spreads its wings and screams.

It’s getting hard to distinguish seasonal sadness from the regular sadness of being a person bearing witness to 2026.

Inside is crowded and buzzing with conversation. The power had just been restored an hour previously, and with it, the promise of pancakes. Small, loose clusters of families overflow the waiting area, and I have the unusual sensation of stepping into a party I didn’t know I was invited to. 

By the door, a young father holds a baby girl bundled in tiny winter clothes, attracting coos and compliments from passersby. In the corner, two families have a lively discussion about schools and sports. On the bench, a man waiting for his to-go order discovers he lives a few streets down from the older gentleman beside him. None of these people know each other, but here, are made neighbors. 

This is our way back to each other:

I love your hat. 

It was nice chatting with you. 

What are you ordering? 

Come sit at my table.

Alicia Boettjer is a creative nonfiction writer whose work has been published in Bending Genres and Hecate magazine. She is the owner of a content marketing business and lives in Cincinnati, Ohio with her husband and cat.