My Neighbor

I didn't recognize my neighbor nor he, me.  It was only that he went to the door adjacent mine that I know what place he has in my life.  In two-and-a-half years, I've seen him maybe that many times, usually just the door closing behind him, once his wife.  How is it possible?  I see their light on through the peep-hole, in the summer the door is propped open to allow a breeze.  I know they live there, and they are not nocturnal.  How have our paths crossed so infrequently?  Perhaps it is my own schedule that is disrupting our inevitable entitled meetings.  It's hard to tell.  Perhaps on the other side of the divide, they are living a life not unlike mine, wondering the same things, experiencing the same sorrows and joys, trying to make sense of life in Japan, of life alone and with others.  I wonder if I will see him again before I leave.  Maybe we have lived the entirety of our relationship and are beginning the denouement.  Or maybe once again; and in that meeting we will finally know one another, after waiting all these years.