My downstairs neighbor, Zen, has died. He was about 80, a feisty, independent Filipino man, with whom I was friends. Many years ago I fell on the stairs and not only sprained my ankle, but bruised my left leg all the way to my knee. I couldn’t get up or down the stairs for two months. It was Zen who brought me my mail every day and even did my laundry for two months. (He refused to fold it; he left that to me.) He didn’t drive, so I would do little errands for him at times and, as he grew frail I’d try to keep an eye on him.