Most mornings, around eight, I see two couples on my street. The women walk, slowly, deliberately up, and down, and up my street, turning around in front of my house. They are always dressed well, hunched together, stiffly moving as steadily as their ages permit, always speaking in their first, familial language.

Their husbands wait two apartment buildings down, dressed in jackets, khakis, and baseball caps, flowing from English to their first language and back again. Trying to decipher what the language is most days, listening intently, trying not to stare, I am always caught, and with a smile and a “Good Morning” I once again have missed my opportunity. It sounds like something out of Eastern Europe…Polish, or Russian, a Slavic language that sounds almost familiar, somehow comforting…

These four seventysomething neighbors of mine keep alive my dream of living in a neighborhood full of culture, diversity, and friendship. I love to see them, love saying “Hello,” love being recognized on my street. Because it is my street, and my neighborhood, and these are my neighbors.

If I see these four, walking each morning, it immediately puts a smile on my face. Followed by a quickened pace. For when I see my neighbors, my friends, around eight o’clock, it means I am late.