*When I was little, my mom would sing “It Goes Like It Goes,” the theme from the 1979 movie “Norma Rae.”

So it goes 
Like it goes
Like the river flows 
And time keeps travelin’ on 
And maybe what’s good 
Will get a little bit better
And maybe what’s bad
Will get gone

The passage of time is a bittersweet beast. It happens incrementally and without much noise. But give life a month or two, and things won’t be the same.

I’m starting to notice clues that I’ve been here for little while now, that the move is no longer shiny and new. They’re silly things that nonetheless nod to time taking steps. I used the last of the paper towels I bought in bulk the weekend I moved in. The systems network password I created on my first day at work will expire soon.

Then there’s the house across the street. An older couple has lived there for 45 years. The woman is plump with shoulder-length white hair that she curls to tuck under her chin. The man wears glasses, suspenders and baggy jeans. He’s bald.

The day I moved in, I waited on my front step for the movers to arrive with my stuff. They called to say they’d be late. I walked to Starbucks under a hazy sun, nervously aware that in an hour, this relaxed calmness would fade without a promise to reappear.

I returned to the porch and drank an iced mocha through a green straw. The woman across the street was gardening. She ripped up some grass and planted something, then watered it with a hose.

Over the next few weeks, I came to feel like her stalker. I’d peer out the window to see if she was working outside. The sight of her gave me comfort. Maybe she reminded me of my grandmothers. One warm Saturday afternoon, her young granddaughter and grandson came over to splash in a plastic kiddie pool. She sat in a lawn chair with a broad-brimmed hat, bringing them toys from inside. It made me smile. She was, to me, simplicity, a life that had progressed and was peacefully, slowly coming to a close.

I came home from work a few weeks ago to a “for sale” sign staked in their front yard. For a second, my heart fell. Not because I’d grown to know them; we’d never spoken. But it represented the undoing of something seemingly permanent.

They moved into their house in 1970. My older sister hadn’t been born yet. This town was without question a different place. Smaller. Probably more like a village. The world, of course, was a different place. It didn’t have internet. It didn’t have iPhones. It didn’t have girls in cutoff shorts posing with pursed lips and parted hair. At least, not for the sake of Instagram.

On a recent Saturday after the gym, I saw the older woman outside. I crossed the street and introduced myself. Up close, she looks like Paula Deen, with soft skin and caramel-colored freckles. She was warm and friendly. She made eye contact with clear blue eyes. She used to work at the local elementary school, the one right around the corner. She and her husband don’t want to move, but taking care of a house was becoming too much. They’re going to a retirement home.

I explained my cross-country move. I told her how much I love the neighborhood. In that moment, we each shared a slice of our lives. We wished each other well, she called me sweetie, and I crossed the street back home.

Now, new families are coming through, touring the house with their realtors. A woman in a burqa with her small son. A family of four, the two kids arguing. I’ve come outside almost every day to a new pile of stuff the older couple is giving away. I usually rummage through it. I picked up some plastic dinner plates that are good for a kid at dinnertime. I picked up some extension cords because I needed one for the microwave.

The last thing I picked up was a plastic Christmas wreath. It’s nothing special inherently, just typical faux evergreen shaped like a donut. But I’ll think of Paula and her husband every year as I tie the wreath with ribbon and arrange white lights around it to welcome us home on winter nights. I’ll hang it on the door and wonder where my neighbors are.