I rented apartments for years in New York City in near anonymity, never bothering to make friends in the building. Moving to a new apartment in Denver a couple of years ago changed that.

For the first time in a decade, I know my neighbors’ names. 

I came to know them through their care.

Next door is George, who never fails to stop and say hello – and whose flowers I admire from my patio. A few doors down is Susana with the Siamese cat; she throws weeknight soirees. Estella, down the hall to the left, a building veteran of 30 years, will bring you chili just because.

My neighbors had welcomed me warmly at the start, which prompted a sharing of myself, too. We’ve traded meals and errands, cards and hugs, through sickness, grief, and joy. 

The Monitor in recent weeks has also offered stories of neighborly care amid conflict. Whether it’s stockpiling socks and snacks in a Jerusalem basement or turning a Gaza Strip beauty salon into a shelter, strangers are improvising love in war. 

Our 11th-floor community in Colorado faces much smaller stakes, of course. But I see the impulse as the same. 

Estella makes big pots of chili because “I don’t know how to cook it any other way,” she says. “I wanted to share.”