We co-exist quite easily with the people who live above us. In fact, we like
them very, much although we never socialize and rarely borrow sugar,
eggs, or milk.

It’s a friendship with healthy boundaries.

We converse on Seventh Avenue, in the stairwell, the
vestibule, in the lobby at PS 321. But we’ve never invited
them over for dinner, or a cocktail. (We really should.)

But we’re pretty close already, sort of. 

It’s not like we know the intimate details of each other’s lives
because we don’t. Yet,  we’re "close" in that New York City neighbor sort of
way: we can hear the pitter patter and loud THUMPING of their children’s feet. The baby’s
crying. The murmur of voices. But we NEVER hear exactly what they are saying. Nor do we want to.
.
I know when they have dinner parties, when their kids have play dates (it gets really noisy then), how well one of them plays guitar. That sort of thing.

I am also aware of their comings and goings. I guess that’s pretty
intimate. I know that HE wakes up around 5 a.m. and goes downstairs to
get his New York Times off the stoop.

Years ago, pre-kids, SHE went running in the Park every morning.
I admired her as I continued to sleep in my warm winter bed.

Pre-kids ,they used to vacuum their apartment on Sunday mornings and we’d listen to it roar.

It’s actually kind of a one-sided relationship. We hear their noise but they don’t hear ours
(the people below us get that in spades). THe people above us are on the top-floor, so they don’t have to listen to  the comings and
goings of anyone (except maybe the occasional pigeon).

Fact: This apartment building is
minimally insulated between floors. Running, thumping, banging,
falling: the sound of two active children running up and down a hallway
is a bit like a roller derby.

Strangely, it doesn’t bother me that much. I know SHE worries about her kids being noisy. SHE told me that
once and I said something like: "What are you going to do? It’s just the way it is in this building. Please don’t think about it." And I meant it.

Because in a way, our upstairs neighbors are like family. A family in that "we live in the same building" kind of way.

Once, in the middle of the night, they got a phone call which was
unusual. I got worried: ‘I hope everything is alright,’ I said to
Husband while trying to fall back to sleep. The next day, I asked if
everything was okay. He seemed a little startled (maybe I did push a
boundary?) but it was some kind of family
health emergency.

About a year ago, we heard them get up in the middle of the
night someone ran down the hallway. But we didn’t think much of it. I
figured they had a kid throwing up or something.

Turned out that a wall of kitchen cabinets fell off the kitchen wall.
We didn’t hear THAT because it was in the front of the
apartment and the bedrooms are in the back.

They lost almost all of their china, bowls, glasses, and other breakable kitchen supplies.
It was a horrible mess. The next day, we went upstairs to commiserate, observe the wreckage, and listen to the tale.

These thought came to mind because this morning HE was playing blues guitar. He’s really talented and I love to catch a little bit of his music — even if it is very muffled. I know he sings, but I can just barely hear
it. Sometimes I am tempted to take one of my guitars upstairs and jam
along.

But that would REALLY be crossing boundaries.

HE plays guitar really well. He told that he was in a  a rock and roll musician when he was in his twenties, a roots rock band. I can and
can’t imagine it. Now, he’s got an important job and wears a suit and tie every
day.

But he used to play in a rock ‘n roll band. And he’s still really, really good.