Usually we just see Paul on our way out for our nature walks. He says, "Bye ladies," as he opens the door. He always makes sure the girls exit carefully, "Watch your step, ladies." We swoosh out past him, bringing the cold lobby air into the humid D.C. summer. And for a minute as he closes the door, we are little bits of ice, reflected.
The girls and I went down to see Paul, our doorman, at around 2pm. Their birthday is next week, so any number of books and small teddies will be arriving in the mail. So we checked with Paul.
Today, he brings out a familiar shaped package and says, "Looks like books for the girls." We yell goodbye a million times as the elevator door closes and Paul's world is closed to us as we re-enter our own.
5pm and Jeff comes home from work. "I have bad news he says, gravely." I can't imagine what it might be. "Paul died on the job today." And I am in this odd place, having just seen Paul alive, hours before. And now he is dead. Paul wasn't a family member or even a close friend. But he was part of our routine. So I feel the immediate sadness that death itself exists. There is something to say for being sad for someone who has died rather than for yourself and your loss. I am so sad that Paul doesn't get to be alive anymore.
When Archie died last month, Jeff felt like he had to break it to Paul because he really liked Archie. The first year that we lived here, he left an Xmas present for Archie on our doorstep. That is just the kind of guy he was. The package said "To Freddy," so Archie was Freddy for a few days as he ate all the treats that Paul had left. He was a really nice man and beyond that, through all the years that he has been the keeper of the lobby, we never really learned much else. I am hoping that he lived a full life, but I will likely never know.
