Upstairs Neighbor
Amy Hill
By Sharon Latimer-Mosley, New Rochelle, NY, U.S.
Mr. H lives in the apartment right above us. We know he’s okay when the wood floor in the
ceiling squeaks, the toilet wooshes, or his vacuum hums across his immaculately-maintained rugs. I
envy his housekeeping skills. Body slowed by arthritis, yet not a spec of dust lands or is there
any disorder in his apartment.
“They like to show my apartment as an example,” he beamed one time.
Mr. H. has been our guest since COVID arrived last March. Each time, giving his secret knock at our
front door, then ceremoniously asking if my husband, “The Boss,” is home.
“There’s no boss here!” I always respond, to his delight.
He rushes past, barefoot, sanitizer in hand, to take his favorite seat in our living room. Sometimes, he surprises us with homemade chicken soup, fritters, Bacalao, and Jamaican breakfast. Everything I’m not supposed to eat. Mr. H. delights in those who delight in his food. One day, he came down, his demeanor heavy, eyes down.
“Miss Sharon?”, he looked at me directly. “Do you think god is punishing us? All da people and the children dem dying.”
His question shocked me for a moment. He was more learned in the bible than me. He could quote number and verse. I, the Buddhist, had questions myself about the why, with no answers.
“No,” I answered confidently, without thinking. “Why would a compassionate being do that? I think COVID is a biological being that is trying to live like we are trying to live.”
He was silent.
“Stop watching so much news!” I instructed sternly. “Listen to music.”
“I like Mozart,” he piped up.
“Don’t you have the bible on CD?” I said.
His eyes brightened. “Yes Miss Sharon, I do”
“Listen to that. Maybe there’s an answer there.”
Later, Mozart played. The bible spoke.