At the age of 20, I never fully understood the profound sadness that had befallen my grandmother when my papa passed away.  My nana was famously perched in the right side window of #116 Wheeler Park, a senior complex in Scituate.  

When my papa was alive, you would inevitably get a wave as you circled the park.  If he happened to be watching the idiot box or sleeping, it would be my grandmother with the wave, one or the other, serving as sentry. This routine of them perched behind their designated "his" and "hers" window panes went on for years and years, and at times, still feels very recent.
                               

A generation later and now my parents are at Wheeler Park. I bring my daughter often. Her interaction with them and her eagerness closely resembles my time there when I was young.

Last week, I drove past my parents place and sped down the hill to the lower level where my grandparents used to reside. As I crept along with my daughter in the car, I noticed a woman a few doors down from #116 sitting in the window. She was small, and silver, and quiet. My eyes never left the window and on queue, she waved.
                                  

I circled around and went back up the hill, still thinking of that frail old woman. I began to wonder, how many woman sit here, as my grandmother did, widowed and alone. And further, how many amazing stories are trapped behind those blue front doors. Stories of youth, and adolescence, memories of incredible joy and unimaginable pain: Of parenthood and wars, reunions and regrets. Collages in time still crystal clear behind that window.
                                

In this day of instant gratification, 24-hour news cycles, and the intense pace of day-to-day life, who has the time to sit in the widow in #128?  To hear her amazing story...

After all, we all have kids going to recitals, and hockey, and two parents working, wondering who's picking up who and when. It's all so hectic, who could bother?  In truth, we all have the time.  And we should.

By Greg Coyne

Gregory Coyne of Marshfield is the Director of Operations at Barneys New York, as well as a writer, golfer, and dad to Riley.