When I was six, my family and I moved into a condominium complex. My dad called it "The Shoebox." The condo was small and we shared a garage with our neighbors. My parents parked on one side of the garage, our neighbors on the other.
While my parents may have found this sharing of a garage slightly annoying at first, I loved it.
I remember waking up every morning eager to run out my back door to knock on my neighbor’s door. The little boy next door was three and ever since the day we met, we were inseparable. Every day, one of us would knock on each others' doors, asking our moms if we could go outside or come over and play with each other. Our back door knocking was part of our daily routines. We played Legos, house, tag — every childhood game you could possibly think of. It was a dream come true — a friend to play with almost whenever I wanted.
Three years after we first moved in, a new addition — my neighbor’s baby sister — arrived. You’d think the door knocking would have stopped at some point, but it never did. My little neighbor’s sister just joined in on our fun. We put on mini concerts, watched movies, rode our bikes and climbed trees. When we got older, we watched thunderstorms and sat around a fire, roasting marshmallows and stuffing our faces.
My neighbors supported me in good times and in bad. If I was locked out of my house, I went to my neighbors. If I was mad at my parents, I went to my neighbors. If I found out an intriguing fact while at school, I went to my neighbors. When I got two new puppies, I went to my neighbors. We were inseparable. So much so, I actually cried when my neighbors went on family vacations without me, even though I am not their child biologically and they, in fact, were not leaving me behind.
At some point throughout our 10 years of sharing a garage, I decided to jokingly call my neighbor’s parents mom and dad. Since then, it’s stuck. My neighbors have “adopted” me as one of their own. My “mom” has grounded me; my “dad” has un-grounded me. My “brother” has smashed whipped cream on my face while I was asleep and my “sister” always wants to borrow my clothes.
Looking back on my childhood in The Shoebox, I wouldn’t dream of it being any other way.
For 10 years, my neighbors and I knocked at each others' back doors. For 10 years, every single day, someone asked me to play with them or watch a movie. For 10 years, I had two of my best friends living less than 30 seconds away from me.
My childhood memories — all of the games I played, all of the adventures I went on — all involve the kids and the family that my parents and I shared a garage with.
I would not be the person I am today without those neighbors that turned into family. So, to my childhood neighbors: I thank you profusely for the memories, support, adventures and the younger “siblings” I never would have had. We might live five minutes away from each other now, compared to a minuscule 30 seconds, and we might not see each other constantly like we used to, but you are, in fact, a part of my family and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
