I stopped for a chat yesterday with a woman I see now and again when doing errands in a nearby neighborhood. We know each other in that remarkable inverse-familiarity way that happens often between women.

I couldn’t tell you many basic facts about her–damned if I can remember her last name–but I know her grandchild won’t be visiting as often because the toddler’s parents are at war. I know, roughly, how much money she and her husband have in their IRA. (They’re good savers; the economic tsunami didn’t hit hard.)

Likewise, I doubt she knows what I do for work, but she could tell you that Aug. 4 marked a year since a particularly painful death in my family. She knows I was not happy with my last haircut and that my best friend was in the hospital for a week.

Yesterday we were chatting about a new business moving into the block next to hers, when an ambulance roared past, sirens screaming. We both shivered.

“I hate that sound,” she said. We waited for the noise to subside. When it faded, she pushed up her long sleeves. Both arms were crisscrossed with scars. “It reminds me of all the times I cut myself when I was younger,” she said. I nodded and patted one of her arms. She pulled down her sleeves and we picked up the thread of our conversation.

“Your hair is growing out really fast,” she assured me.