The building I live in is mostly filled with older women and men, all of whom I’ve come to love. There is no elevator in my building of six floors. So, my neighbors must walk up and down the stairs. They move with a slow diligence, placing one foot above the other and pulling themselves up the stairs. On their way down, they turn sideways, easing their weight from one knee to the next.

Early on, one of the elder women said to me “you always stop and let me pass. You are so polite.” I smiled and let her pass. She hobbled up the stairs, back bent forward, cloth shoes skidding across the concrete stairs and echoing around the hollow stairwell. I didn’t realize it at the time, but little actions like that are what they enjoyed. The hello’s as we passed, the smiles, and my willingness to stop and chat.

“No, that’s not what I said. You didn’t understand.” The widowed women from the fourth floor scolded me with a smile. She repeated herself, but her meaning never made it out from under her loc…