The wife of the man we lovingly refer to as the Mayor of Third Street died a few days ago. She’s been very ill for some time; she was in her mid-seventies.

The mother of nine children, I didn’t know her well. She raised them all in that apartment on Third Street, where they lived for most of their married life, I believe. While the Mayor was often outside, she stayed in due to her illness.

I wave to the Mayor most mornings. Sometimes I see him at the newsstand, where he gets his Daily News or Post. I admired the way he took care of their cement yard. Tidying around the garbage pails, sweeping the yard.

He was apartment-building-proud.

A few years ago, he put bright red fake flowers in a whiskey barrel. His window is always up to date with the laest holiday decorations: Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, St. Patrick’s Day, Easter. Those windows delight the children on Third Street; he always puts a flag out on national holidays.

Neighbors saw an ambulance in front of the building a few weeks ago. From what I know, she died at home. They were set to celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary In April.

RIP to a neighbor; Third Street says good bye. Condolences to the Mayor, his family and all who survive this longtime Third Street resident.