July 18, 2017:

There was a second neighbor who was unjust to me. A very old woman, old and frail. I was tree climbing and she accused me of maliciously breaking branches. I hadn't broken any branches, and would never. I had a special love for trees.

Later, weeks or months, she'd come to understand me better, and we were, if not friends, at least at peace.

One day my mother tore our door open and ran up the stairs. "Call the paramedics!", she shouted over her shoulder. I could hear her with the old woman, whose door was open too. The old woman was sobbing, she was ill or in great pain. I called 911 and the medics took her away on a stretcher.

She'd fallen, and broken many bones. My mother heard the fall and had gone to help her. The crying I'd heard was from pain and fear.

Her daughter came, days later, to clean out the apartment. She'd died in the hospital. "I don't think she wanted to live anymore," the daughter said.

I don't remember either of their names now. It was half a century ago.